


Court & Essence

by Amelinda, grayclouds



Series: Through the Diary [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Child Abuse, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Riddle in Harry's Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelinda/pseuds/Amelinda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayclouds/pseuds/grayclouds
Summary: Both traumatized and disturbed, Harry Potter must find the strength to fight the Ministry's corrupt anti-Muggle agenda while navigating the recent discovery that he is soul-bound to resident psychopath, Tom Riddle.Sequel toThe Universe Hopper.





	1. Kith and Kin

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! If you're new, this introductory chapter will make NO sort of sense. I've included a recap of the former fic, which you can find by clicking [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11291187/chapters/31539276). If you're not interested in doing that but would like a bit of angst added to your day—which is totally fine—here are the most essential details you need to know:
> 
> Harry comes from an alternate timeline. He was adopted by the Potters when he crossed six months ago. To understand the reason for their strange bond, Tom lured Harry into taking a Dark potion with him--without telling him the extent of the possible side-effects--and as a result, both suffered an extensive and traumatizing hallucination. However, during it, Harry did learn something: his and Tom's soul are fused together, thus explaining why his soul was transferred to Tom's timeline.
> 
> The framework—and much of the text, bar this chapter—was written through a role-play with my lovely partner-in-crime, grayclouds, who played Harry while I played Tom.

  **Part I: Trials**

 

_Harry Potter, have you any idea what you do to me? How I lie awake at night, dreaming of your hands, your feet, your warm and affecting touch?_

_You are all that I want and all that I deserve. You are the tie that binds._

_And yet I find myself disappointed._

_Why must you behave like a petulant brat, Harry?_

_No one cares for you like I do, you know. Not your petty Gryffindor friends, whose interest is fleeting. Not your selfish parents, whose love is shallow and morbid and selfish._

_Only I can love you as you are, Harry._

_Can’t you see it?_

_Can't you see what you are?_

_You are mine._

_And mine alone._

 

*          *          *

 

In the late hours of Boxing Day, as the horizon bleeds orange into a cloudless cobalt sky, Lily Potter rests, cross-legged, in the grass outside the Potter Manor. From this vantage, her husband, James, is visible in the gardens of his long-dead ancestors, where he and their friends attempt to breathe life into the barren grounds. They are by no means good at what they attempt. James and Sirius are utter rubbish at herbology, and while Remus is passingly competent, Lily spots the flaws in his technique, the missteps in his spell-work. She could offer him advice. Maybe tell him the conjuration of larkspur requires a softer brandish.

“Not the best landscapers, are they?” comes the gruff voice of Tonks. She sits beside Lily with her eyes kept on the gardens, her vividly pink hair as delicate a shade as James’s uneven peony patch. “Guess it’s all Dumbledore can afford.”

Lily smiles. “I think Dumbledore would like their work. He’s always had an eye for eccentric things.”

“Guess we always like things that remind us of ourselves,” Tonks says thoughtfully. “Speaking of, I still haven’t met that boy of yours. Saw him in the _Prophet_ , of course. I could hardly believe it wasn’t James.”

It’s true. Harry’s his father’s spitting image, if a bit softer.

“He has my eyes,” Lily remarks eagerly (self-consciously). “I know it’s an odd thing that’s happened, but the second I looked into his eyes, I knew he was mine.”

“Ha, I don’t doubt it,” Tonks responds. “Remus tells me he’s got a lot of natural talent, too.”

“That’s very kind of him to say.”

“Must be true. Remus doesn’t blow smoke, least of all in private.”

“Spend a lot of time in private, do you?” Lily asks suggestively.

The modest face of Tonks transfigures swiftly into the scarred likeness of Remus. “What can I say? We like the things that remind us of ourselves.” She laughs and returns to normal— _her_ version of normal, which still entails bright red eyeshadow and purple glittering blush. “Not much time for romance these days but we’re having a go at it. He’s just a bit insecure about…well, you know. What might happen if he loses his post.”

Lily nods appreciably. “I worry for Hogwarts. I wonder each day if I should even let Harry return.”

Tonks scoffs playfully. “Do you really think a Potter would take kindly to that? Just imagine if it were you or James at his age.”

“I don’t know,” Lily mutters, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had to fight in a war when I was a teenager. The biggest thing on my mind in those days was whether I could get promoted to Deputy Healer by twenty-five.”

“Don’t give me that. I know you would’ve done just what you’re doing now. And I know James would’ve, too. That man’s put his neck on the line for me more times than I can count.”

Lily winces. “I don’t want my son to think this way. I don’t want him to make any more sacrifices than he’s already had to; I want him to survive. I know it’s a strange thing to have a son born of this circumstance –”

“I don’t think it’s strange,” Tonks interjects softly.

“— but I love him,” Lily says sternly, hitting her hand in the grass. “I _love_ him. I thought to try again, after the baby passed, but it just didn’t seem right. Harry was the only son I wanted. And now, with this Grindelwald nonsense, it seems like the whole universe is just trying to take him away from me again.”

Lily relaxes her tightly wound muscles as Tonks smooths a warm hand down her back.

“I can’t control what happens,” Tonks says, pulling Lily closer to her side. “But I promise, no matter what, I’ll do everything I can to protect your son.”

“Thank you, Nymphadora.”

“ _Nymphadora_?” Tonks repeats indignantly, her hair darkening to a violent red. “What did I say about calling me—”

 _Crack_.

“Jesus!” Lily shouts. She turns to find James smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “Didn’t feel like walking up here. Me and the knuckleheads are going to hit up the Leaky Cauldron. Care to join?”

“You bet your arse,” Tonks agrees hopping up and gesturing enthusiastically.

Lily smirks uncertainly. “Maybe later. I think I’d like to check in on the boys first. You know, just in case they need anything?”

“The boys?” questions Tonks.

“Harry and his friend,” Lily supplies. “They’ve been alone at home all day.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Lils,” James assures. “Worst case scenario is Harry’s bored from watching Tom read all day. They’re quite a bit like you and me, eh?”

Lily smiles and excuses herself, insisting she’ll catch up if everything is in order back home.

The comparison James makes between their own love and Harry’s is a flat one. He never has understood such matters with nuance, and maybe it's for the better. He has a precious innocence, something that shields from nastier truths; where he was loved in abundance, Harry was not. He runs deep with unmet needs. And Tom, so Slytherin and guarded, is certainly nothing at all like Lily, who never fakes a smile, who never has reason to manipulate or connive.

No, Tom is more like her dear friend. She sees it in the unaffected gaze, the slow and calculated responses. They’re survivors of a certain breed: suspicious, alert, untrusting. If James were another man, Lily would explain her thoughts, warn James to keep a careful eye. But James lives in an Auror’s world, completely black and white. Lily is a Healer; she cannot afford to discriminate. 

She Apparates to her gardens out of respect for the boys who, if engaged in some sort of embarrassing display of romance, now have the appropriate warning to “tidy up their act” (as Tuney used to say). She enters after a ten second countdown, announcing her presence with a cheerful, “I’m home!” and clap of the hands.

The sight of Harry asleep on the floor, curled next to fidgeting Tom, confirms what she assumed—and do they think playing asleep is going fool her? She walks forward slowly.

“Hey, you two. You sure you don’t want to sleep upstairs?”

Tom jerks upright. A swathe of dark contusions blotch a stunning black pattern on his pallid complexion. His eyes, his cheek, his chest—all bloodied and bruised, the tell-tale signs of fist marks obvious to her trained eyes.

“ _Tom_?”

He tosses himself across the carpet and tangles his hands in a wayward gown. Him and Harry are both stripped down to their pants! Just as her sprint brings her to the carpet, where lay the unconscious face of her only son, she catches the objective of Tom’s crawl from the corner of her eyes. A wand slips from the black fabric and Tom Riddle Disapparates from the Potter house.

“What…what have you done?”

Tears burst from her brilliant green eyes as she falls beside Harry on trembling knees. He is pale but not as injured as Tom, one solitary bruise blooming beneath a thin trail of blood inking down the corner of his mouth. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to feel his chest, using the same hand she used those years ago when her baby, her precious Harry James Potter, did not mewl for attention as all babies should.

The steady thrumming of a healthy heart pulses against her palm; Harry Potter is very much alive.

Lily pulls her son into her arms and weeps.

 

*          *          *

 

Across the country, mounted on a hill overlooking the moors of Yorkshire, the Riddle House sings with the sound of music. Thomas Riddle’s long and masterful fingers dance fluently across the black-and-white keys. It echoes from the high vaulted covens of the music chamber, building a world of sounds in which he is lost.

“Mr. Riddle! MR. RIDDLE!”

He could be eighteen again. Eighteen and free of dark shadows leering over his slumber. Eighteen and dancing at the ball with Cecelia. Oh, how lovely that would be!

“MR. RIDDLE, COME QUICK!”

Eighteen and on the train to—

“ _THOMAS ARCHIBALD RIDDLE THE SECOND!_ ”

His hands slam on the keys. “Just leave the damn spider alone! I’ll deal with it later!”

Mrs. Deavers does tire him with her irrational fear of critters.

Just as his fingers touch down, prepared to revisit the fond annals of his memories, her voice breaks in again.

“IT’S NOT A SPIDER! IT’S—IT’S THE BOY! _IT’S YOUR BOY!_ QUICK!”

He finds Mrs. Deavers clutching the boy at the door. Old, shaking fingers run dirty with fresh blood. Thomas abandons his apprehensions and hurries beside them. He is in a poor state, the boy—bare to his pants, bruised down his side, on his ribs, on his swollen face. Thomas pulls him in and shudders as a cold, wet ooze contracts on his bare arm. The boy’s bicep throbs hideously, opened raw by a palm-length slit that looks as if it were jaggedly sliced out by a knife. Thomas fears the obvious truth when he spots the curve of purpling crescents; he was attacked, and left for dead.

“Help me get a grip of him,” Thomas asks of Mrs. Deavers, who leads Tom into the strong arms of the elder Riddle. He lifts him without difficulty. “I’ll take him to the drawing room. You call 999.”

“No,” Tom growls, tossing himself out of Thomas’s arms. His head hits the marble with a terrible _thud_. His eyes open, half-lidded, as he rasps, “No doctors. Need rest.”

“Fine!” Thomas agrees. “But I need to get you off the ground.”

Tom eases onto his knees. Thomas pulls him up, drapes his arm around his shoulder and walks him to the plush sectional by the fire.

“Who did this to you?”

“Merlin, my arm,” Tom mutters, pressing his fingers against the repulsive wound. “I… I _splinched_ myself?” He cringes and folds in on himself, recessing his stomach into prominent ribs.

“Splinch? Is that some sort of drug? If you’ve overdosed, I must insist on calling the paramedics!”

“I haven’t— _ugh_ ,” he moans, twisting his neck to observe his injuries. He sighs and flings his head back. The breaths he takes worry Thomas with their pneumonic rattling. “I haven’t done drugs. Just... Give me my wand. I need my wand.”

“You’re delirious,” Thomas tells him. “You need medicine.”

“Ack-see-oh wand!” Tom shouts, opening his palm.

Mrs. Deavers offers a roll of gauze to Thomas. “I found this in the cabinet."

“What the hell?” Tom grunts groggily. “ _Ack-see-oh wand!”_

“Here, stop that,” Thomas says soothingly, taking his son’s arm and spinning the silk mesh around skin sodden with blood. This near to him, he smells the distinct tang of vomit. Lovely. He tucks the tail of fabric, wipes a stray curl from the stick of blood. “How did you get here?”

Tom responds with an awful noise—whispering, spitting, almost like _hissing._ Thomas fingers the edge of his hairline gently, but speaks sternly, “Christ, are you mad?”

Mrs. Deavers busts in with horseshoe-heavy steps.

“A wet cloth for his nose!”

Thomas takes the damp toilette and dabs blood from beneath Tom’s swollen nose. “You better hope it’s not broken. They never quite look the same after.”

“Yes,” Tom says hoarsely, rolling his eyes. “The beauty of my nose is, of course, of the utmost importance.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Thomas responds patiently. The dry clot of blood breaks into a watery stream as he continues to dab his mouth. “Are you prepared to tell me what happened yet?”

“Yes. Under one condition,” Tom barters quietly.

“And that is?”

“Bring me the stick I dropped. It should be near the door.”

Mrs. Deavers steps up while fishing in her apron pocket. She offers a thin stick. “You-you mean _this_ one?”

“Yes!” Tom exclaims. He snatches it at once.

It looks as if someone fastened a limb into a sleek, varnished toy. Could this be an odd pagan practice? Could Tom have been adopted by one of those peculiar cults who live by the riverside? Thomas opens his mouth for inquiry but stops short of speaking when the silence is pierced by Tom’s desperate laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“It’s _Harry’s_ wand,” he explains through his hysterics, dropping the stick by his side, rubbing his fingers insensitively over the mess on his face. “That’s why it wouldn’t come to me. That’s why I’ve been bloody splinched.”

“Slow down,” Thomas insists, placing a cool wrist on the shaking plane of Tom’s flushed and blood-smeared forehead. “One thing at a time, now. What do you mean by, er, getting splinched? Is this some sort of street name?”

His manic laughter grows at the suggestion.

“Please, Tom!”

“Tell you what,” he says resolutely, collecting his laughter in an odd, crooked grin, “for your _kind_ offer of assistance, I’ll repay by answering one question. Then I request you leave me be.”

Thomas nods reluctantly. Is this what it is to be a father? To give with little thanks in return? Yes, that’s right. Indeed, it is. Indeed, Tom is _his_ son, and he needs his father’s help. And so, as for the question—where to start, really? Many things could be asked. How did he get here? Who saw fit to beat him senseless? Why isn’t he wearing any trousers? (Oh, Christ, don’t let it be trafficking… anything but trafficking, how could he handle the guilt?) Any such question, if not asked carefully, could fail to clear matters up. He thinks back to Tom’s rambling, his odd talk of wands, his unwillingness to be seen by medics. Why, on earth, would someone in his state not want to be treated? What is he trying to hide?

No. No, not _what_.

Who.

Thomas crouches at eye level, and says in his kindest voice, “Tom…Who is Harry?”

There is a pause. Tension. Uncomfortable silence, held heavy by a pair of dark eyes, one swollen to a slit and the other wide and dangerous. Thomas doesn’t budge but returns the stare with an arching brow, wondering if, in his delusion, the boy intends to fight. But no. The eyes shift, then droop, and when Tom exhales, it reminds Thomas of an engine revving, gravelly and forced. He lays his head more fully into the cushion and leans to his side, facing away from Thomas and Mrs. Deavers.

“Just answer me this, Tom. If you can answer me this, I’ll show you to our finest guest quarters. You’ll be welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“Ah. And I suppose if I don’t tell you, you’ll kick me out.”

“Of course not,” Thomas assures. “But you allowed me one question, did you not?”

“Come on, Mr. Riddle,” Mrs. Deavers whispers, patting her hand on Thomas’s back. “He needn’t tell us. Let’s just get him sorted and—”

“I’ll tell you,” Tom interrupts in a loud mumble. “But I’m sure you’d rather not know.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Whoever it is, whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, you’re welcome here. You’re my son, Tom.”

Tom twists his neck, making prominent the sight of his swollen cheekbone. The ghost of a smirk twists his red-stained lips as he raises his arms and waves his digits, drawing attention to the black stone which juts off his ring-finger.

“He’s my unpredictable fiancé. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d quite love a sick bag so as to not defile what I’m sure is very expensive upholstery.”

 

*          *          *

 

_What do you not understand, Harry? Do you not desire me?_

_Am I no longer inspiring?_

_When you trawl your trousers, will you feel limp and lifeless?_

_Poor boy._

_Poor little Harry Potter._

 

*          *          *

 

“I’ve sent Severus to the laboratory with what I could scrape off the sides.”

“How long will it take?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a night…”

These voices stir Harry into consciousness. His eyes open freely, immediately, delivering him to the waking world with unusual alertness. The blurred outline of his mother’s deep red hair gives him precious security. He pats around his arse, his legs, beneath his pillow, searching for the thin wire frame of his glasses, which his fingers then graze on the small table beside his bedstead.

“Harry’s awake,” James says, nudging Lily.

“Harry!”

Lily sits on the bed by his feet and places a firm hold on his knee. Harry blushes in shame; running down her powdered cheek, there are distinct streaks of tears. Pressure builds from his gut, coils aggressively in his stomach.

“Hi, Mum,” he says weakly. “Hi, Dad.”

“How do you feel, son?” James asks, crossing his arms uncomfortably in front him.

He's keeping his distance. The thought causes the horrible pressure inside of him to grow.

But other than the coiling, and the pressure, and the sense that he can expect their disappointment, he doesn’t feel bad. He feels ready and rejuvenated, as if he’s just slept for twenty-four hours straight—and, come to think of it, maybe he has. He doesn’t want to ask, though. He doesn’t want to hear what they think has happened, or what their judgements are on the matter. He wishes that, instead of the worry and the pity, his father would just get it over with. Hit him. Insult him. Send him to his room with neither dinner nor hopes of breakfast.

When he finally speaks, he is torn. Tears spill over before his mouth can form the words he needs to say, so in a pathetic, low sob, all he can gasp is a simple “I’m sorry.”

Lily rubs his leg comfortingly. “Everything’s ok, sweetheart. Everything’s ok.”

“Did Tom make you do it?”

Harry startles, inhaling sharply. James’s voice is cold and accusatory, a tone he’s not yet heard from his father.

_Tom._

He thinks of a child lurking in the shadows. He thinks of hisses and strange voices. He thinks of Tom’s frantic voice… but frantic why? He cannot remember why he heard this, cannot quite connect what it has to do with the phantom cramp of pain in his right knuckles… And then he remembers, and shivers in revulsion.

“I hurt him,” Harry sputters. “I hurt Tom. Where is he? Is he alright?”

“I don’t know where he is,” Lily says stiffly. “But I know it wasn’t _you_ who brewed that Draught.”

“No, Mum, I need him,” Harry implores, the fear of Tom, hurt and alone, closing in on him like a noose. “It wasn’t his fault. We-we both wanted to do it. We just thought—”

James breaks in grimly, “You just thought brewing a grade-B illegal potion while the Ministry is looking for any excuse to arrest you was a good idea?”

“Illegal?” Harry parrots helplessly, wiping hastily at his tears. “I didn’t know it was illegal. I don’t even know if Tom knew it was illegal! He just found it in a book.”

“Yes,” Lily says, “a book which _no_ child should have in his possession. Where did he even get _Secrets of the Darkest Art_? Dumbledore banned it before _we_ were at Hogwarts! He must have sought this book out, Harry. He knew what he was getting you both into.”

“No!” Harry shouts, hiccupping on his cry. “You don’t understand! Neither of you understand. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. We were just trying to figure out why…” He takes a deep breath, gathers his thoughts and shudders. “We wanted to know why I’m here!”

“You could have died _,_ ” Lily growls. 

“And he could’ve, too!” Harry retorts, burning all over. “He didn’t do anything to me that he didn’t do to himself! He wasn’t trying to hurt me, he wasn’t trying to, to, to—”

Harry _hates_ this. He hates defending Tom to his parents, Tom whom he halfway despises, whom he deeply loves in such abundance it can never be expressed nor even _felt_ by anyone who isn’t Harry James Potter. His parents cannot hope to comprehend that beneath the superficiality of adolescent romance, he is tethered to Tom, inseparably. Who could hope to understand that he is… he is…

_Soul-bound to a maniac._

“I understand you love him, Harry,” Lily says in a tense voice of fake patience. “I’m not telling you to stop loving him. I’m telling you that he put your life in danger for no good reason. We welcomed Tom into our house, treated him like he was family. We expect decency in return, and instead we were met with _this_.” She gestures at Harry. “A botched attempt at a fool’s potion.”

“Well if it weren’t for Tom, then _I_ wouldn’t even be here!”

Lily and James share a curious frown.

“Harry,” James says slowly, “what exactly did the Draught show you?”

Harry presses his lips, scowling. An ice-like chill rolls down his chest, inspiring a foreign thrill, a need to detach. His parents cannot know the truth. They are much too ordinary, too plain, they’ll send him to the Ministry to be looked at and experimented on, they’ll know what sort of monster lurks on the inside. _(No, that’s not true!_ ) The Minister will have his fun, turn Harry into a puppet for his cause, and his parents won’t care. Why would they care? ( _They love me!_ ) It’s just a matter of time before Harry’s ignorance is his undoing, and it will be his fault. He learned long ago that no one is trustworthy. All of man shall either conquer or subordinate.

_‘Which will it be, Harry? Which will you choose?’_

“Get out of my head,” Harry mutters, clawing into his scalp, breathing uneasily. These are not his thoughts. Is this what it feels like to be Tom Riddle? Can Tom feel _Harry_ in return?

“Harry, son,” James whispers, “please talk to us. We want what’s best for you. We want to help you.”

“If you want to help me,” Harry says, gritting his teeth, shaking, “then you’ll trust me. We need to find Tom. I don’t care how much you hate him. He needs me.”

“Harry…” breathes James. “We don’t hate Tom. He’s a teenager. Teenagers make stupid mistakes. But you need to consider your own health. We know the bond you have with him is special, but that doesn’t mean he’s right for you.”

“You really, really don’t get it, Dad.”

“Look, I was once your age, and I—”

“James?” asks Lily, cutting him off.

“Yes, honey?”

“Can I have a moment alone with Harry?”

Harry snorts. Another tactic, same objective: convince him he’s a love-struck kid who doesn’t know what’s in his best interest.

Although his eyes betray a longing to stay, James turns and closes the door behind him, but not before looking straight at Harry and saying, “I love you.”

The click of the latch is a hollow and lonely sound.

Lily pulls her legs onto the bed, crosses them, and sets two hands on either knee. The tears are now dry and the green-eyes, identical to his own, peer at him with determination.

“Before I get into this,” she starts, clear and certain, “I want to let you know that I’m on your side. Whatever I do, whatever I say, it’s all for you. Do you understand that?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, Mum. I understand.”

She sighs through her nose. “Tell me what you know about Tom.”

“What do you mean?”

“What is he like when the others aren’t around? When you’re alone?”

Harry’s eyes fall from hers and fade out of focus, narrowing on the paisley patterning of his quilt. He may as well be honest. “Arrogant. Paranoid. Critical of everything.”

“Critical of you?” she probes.

“Umm…” he hesitates. “No, not really. Just of the world, in general.”

“And the family he stays with? Do they ever hurt him?”

The scars on Harry’s back almost seem to ache. “No. Not physically. But no one ever looked after him. He was always on his own.”

“On his own,” Lily repeats, leaning back, appearing lost in thought. “Yes, it makes sense. They’re just alike.”

Harry chews the corner of his mouth nervously. Is he revealing too much? It’s not really his history to tell, it feels violating to even mention.

“When I was your age, I went through something similar,” Lily says, gazing off. “My best friend then was a lot like Tom. He was a Slytherin, too. We lost contact in our last two years at Hogwarts. He immersed himself in Dark magic, experimented with creatures he shouldn’t have… it was too much for me, so I left him alone. Not too long after all that, after my other Harry passed, he was in legal trouble, facing a possibility of five years in Azkaban. That’s when we reconnected. That’s when I realized I was wrong to distance myself from him.”

“What happened to him?” Harry asks.

She smiles. “He plead guilty. Served a year. I went to visit him every week in that dreadful place. It hurt to be around the Dementors with both you and Petunia weighing constantly on my conscience, but I’d like to think it made me a better Healer. I’d had it so well in my life—amazing parents, encouraging teachers, friends who truly loved and cared for me, always. A Healer can never know the pain of her patient, Harry. Some will say they can, but they’re liars.”

“So," Harry says slowly, "you don’t agree with Dad? You don’t think I should break up with Tom?”

“I didn’t say that. I told you, I’m on _your_ side. Whatever is best for you, is best for you. If that means putting distance between yourself and him, then do it. I only told you this because I know how people are. I know there’s no good or evil, or any of that nonsense your father believes in. People who are isolated, who are made to feel like they can’t trust others, they turn to other things. And then they use others to obtain those things, whatever the cost. Money. Power. Dark magic. I’ve seen it all.”

“Then what can I do?” Harry pleads, hurt by the truth in her words. “It feels like… like I’m too late.”

Lily raises her palm to Harry’s face, cupping the curve of his cheek. “You’re just a kid, Harry.”

He blinks back tears. “I know that.”

“You can’t expect to have it all figured out right now. But I want to make it clear—Dark magic of _no_ variety is welcome in this house. It is not welcome in our lives, period. Dark magic corrodes you from the inside, like a virus, and it doesn’t stop until its eaten all your sanity. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times before, and I’ll probably see it happen a thousand times again.” Her hands take his. “But I won’t see it in you. I trust you’ll learn from this.”

His lip quivers. “But what about Tom? It wasn’t his first time experimenting. The way he talks, it seems like he’s been up to it for a while.”

Lily winks. “I’ve published fifteen papers across prestigious international journals on counter-Dark regenerative therapy. A man was brought to me once with fourth-degree Curse burns caused by an attempt to split his _soul_ , and he’s lived to tell the tale. Nothing Tom’s done can surprise me, Harry. I’m sure at Hogwarts he seems quite impressive, but I could spot four mistakes in that Draught just by looking at it.”

She smiles and exhales in good humor, sadness traced beneath her lips. “He’s a child, too, Harry. And if it’s what you want, we’ll find him, and I’ll show him that when you’re in a family, actions have consequences.” Her hand lie flat on Harry’s chest, just over his erratic heart. “And I hope it teaches you that in _this_ family, my love for you, and your father’s love for you, is unconditional.”

 

*          *          *

 

In the House across the country, on a bed wet with sweat, there stirs sick memories of the Draught. Tom's sharp nails slip past his skin like daggers, clawing into his thighs, his stomach, his arms. His chest is rapid—up and down, up and down—in the dark night which his father’s succumbed to, leaving him alone to thrash and gasp and heave through bile-encrusted lips.

 

 

_CRUCIO!_

_Oh yes, scream for me Harry. It’s music to my ears._  

 

 

_Silhouettes dance behind his eyelids in dark ballet. There are whispers and screams and pleas for mercy. He lies beside Harry’s corpse with carnal satisfaction and horror so intense, he dare not move. He lies for an eternity in the presence of The Thing, the skinned infant who weeps for his crimes. He screams with remorse for all the things he will not do, but would have done, if not for the solitary glow in the corner of the room._

_It is too bright to peek at, too vivid to fathom. Yet he feels it on the tips of his fingers, breathes its warmth in his glacial lungs._

 

 

_Harry Potter._

_Mine, and mine alone._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, y'all. Back with a brand new invention, hoping that you liked it and that, if you did, you'll be willing to offer feedback.
> 
> I'm also interested to know what you'd like to see in this fic, since unlike the last one, this installment is only about...15-20% written? Something like that. Sometimes I write for craft, sometimes I write for personal entertainment + enjoyment. This is definitely the latter, so if you have fun ideas, I'm all ears.
> 
> \- Amelinda


	2. Finding Tom

Morning brings the elder Riddle to Tom.

He sits on an ottoman at Tom’s bedside, dipping a cloth in water, ringing the excess, and pressing the soft cotton against Tom’s cheek. It is a bemusing act. Intimate. Tom indulges curiously in the gesture, even if it means he must listen to vapid babbling as he rests. Riddle can talk at length without the slightest hint of reciprocal interest. Aware of how little is being said in the long and drawling tones, Tom inhales the rose oil water and eases into darkness.

He bobs in and out of consciousness as a corpse may occasionally peel over the waves of a strong stream. Bits and pieces of the elder Riddle’s natter bleed through the black.

“—such a fit, and then I told Mother, so they’ll be coming in from the Cotswolds a few days early to see you, you know she…”

Ink drip, drips in his mind like a hypnotic tap. Dripping down bright white walls laced in red. He has yet to meet his grandparents and yet he’s seen their corpses. Is that not the odd thing about magic? He’s seen his father, dead. His grandparents, dead. Harry, dead.

Himself, murderous.

Bile sloshes up the back of his throat, burning delicate swathes. He coughs, shivers and sighs, and focuses on a lesser pain: the sting of Riddle delicately dabbing the splinched flesh of his arm.

“This has healed abnormally quickly,” he remarks, running his fingertip over the fading wound. “As has your nose.” He grazes it with the pad of his thumb.

“And by tomorrow, they’ll be gone,” Tom mutters vaguely.

“Is that so? Quite a lucky trait, that. Still, you do yourself no favors by rejecting proper treatment.”

“I don’t need doctors. Once I’m well, I’ll be gone.” 

“And where have you to go?”

“I attend boarding school.”

His lip curls. “A scholarship student, are you? Where at?”

“It’s not a place you’ll know.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Of course, you would’ve been at Eton, had I brought you up.”

Tom thinks of Finch-Fletchley and scowls.

“But never mind that,” Riddle sighs, dropping his toilette in the water. “I’m glad to hear you’re still in school. This engagement won’t change matters, will it?”

Marvolo Gaunt’s ring stares up from his red knuckle.

“I don’t recall inviting your opinion.”

“There are many things we get which are unasked for,” Riddle responds pointedly, looking at Tom, up-and-down. “Sometimes they’re things we need, Thomas.”

“…Thomas?” Tom repeats. “I’m not named Thomas.”

“Pardon?”

“Tom. Just Tom.”

The elder Riddle purses his lips. “Ah. How… _quaint_. Tom Riddle, then?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom for my father. Marvolo for hers.”

The elder Riddle shrugs with casual indifference. “Shall I call you Tom, then? Is that what you prefer?”

The back of Tom’s head meets cushion as he reclines, thinking. The wall-to-wall carpet, all velvety beige, is set against the accent of the color he loves: emerald green. It is on the curtains, the boudoir cushion, the high-strung chandelier. It reminds him of Slytherin somewhat, but irrationally, he is chased more by Harry, his eyes. Tom never liked the name ‘Tom’, nor any name so common as to be rendered meaningless. But what is he, if he isn’t Tom? Could he stand to hear Harry’s warm voice rasp another name that’s not truly his own?

Tom clears his hoarse throat with great effort and says, “That is my name, yes. And you prefer to be called Thomas, do you?”

He nods. “Or Father, if you can stomach it. Seems a bit odd to be called Thomas by you.”

Tom laughs through his nose.

“It was not meant as a joke. You needn’t call me that if it summons ill feelings, but I hope, with some conscience, you’ll remember I have not wronged you.”

“It’s neither here nor there,” Tom mumbles.

The drip, dripping begins again.

A shade pours over his vision.

Cool chills travel his spine.

“Tom?”

“I wish to be alone,” Tom whispers softly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Father gathers his bucket and does as he’s told.

Tom tucks his chin beneath the blankets and wandlessly turns the dial for the heater. If he must suffer, he’d prefer to be warm.

 

-

 

“Thomas?”

Thomas pulls his eyes away from the blood-stained sink, steel wool in hand. “Yes, Mrs. Deavers?”

“You should let me worry about the washing,” she chides, gently nudging him to the side. They spent much of his childhood here, him at her feet, him looking up at the underside of her chin as he looked down on her profession.

“Do you think he’ll choose to stay?”

Thomas stares into pale black-and-white porcelain tile. Her white skin, her black hair; anything can remind him of her.

“Off to the butchers,” Thomas says lowly. “Keep an eye on him while I’m gone.”

 

*          *          *

 

“And you’re sure he said Little Hangleton?”

“I’m sure.”

“And you’re positive? London’s a big city, and we only had a small look at it… We could try somewhere closer to Diagon Alley, couldn’t we?”

“Maybe if we don’t turn up anything here,” Harry says, shaking his head. “But I have a good feeling about this.”

Lily sighs.

Her skepticism is well-assigned. Little Hangleton is less a provincial fantasy than Harry had imagined. Standing in the village square, Harry spots five abandoned stores and three sorry vagrants lying in the half-melt snow, passing around a bottle of spirits. The cobblestone path, which must have once been charming, is uneven with cracks, overgrown with weeds. It’s quite the change of scene. Tom’s street in London, while bleak and slummy, at least had the momentum of active locals. Little Hangleton by contrast is a miserable pit. The suspicious lack of foot traffic would nearly unsettle Harry if not for the bicycle chained in front of a kebab shop and the distant murmur of a conversation bleeding through a pub’s stone walls.

Lily crosses her arms. “And you really think Tom was more likely to come _here_ than Hogwarts? Dumbledore really could help us, Harry.”

“No, Tom would hate that,” Harry says, knowing he is too loyal for his own good; he really shouldn’t care what Tom thinks. “And I don’t think he’d go back. He said his father lived in a mansion. Can’t be too many of those around here. Maybe if we checked in that pub?”

Lily glances at it, doubtful. “Well, it promises warm bodies, at least.”

The wooden porch threshold of the pub squeaks with their weight. As the door scrapes back, a wave of smoke stench precedes the sight of fifteen pensioners. The locals peel their attention from a stout telly, and collectively narrow in on Lily and Harry, who stare back with nervously perfunctory smiles.

“Forgive them. Not used to newcomers, these ones,” explains the grainy-voiced woman polishing mugs behind the counter. “Just move around here?”

“No, not exactly,” responds Lily, stepping in closer. “We’re looking for a man who we believe lives in Little Hangleton. Do you know of a Mr. Tom Riddle?”

“Riddle?!” cuts in an elderly man at the bar, grinning ear-to-ear and beating his fists on the counter. “Get this, Margie! This lass is looking for Riddle!”

The woman called Margie peaks up with interest. “Which one of them? The codger or his son?”

Harry blinks. “Er, his son, I believe. Should be in his thirties.”

Several onlookers hiss and laugh. Harry and Lily glance between each other with mutual bemusement. Just as Harry asks what’s the matter, he hops back, Margie pawing him with wrinkled hands, attempting to touch his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Get a look at him, Bert,” she hollers delightedly. “This one’s a Riddle for sure!”

“Ha!” sounds another patron. “I told you he knocked up that tramp!”

“Bollocks. Wasn’t ever no proof of that happening.”

“Shut it, you,” Margie grumbles with a waving fist before regarding Harry. “Knew it’s just a matter of time before you’d come ‘round here.” Her notice turns to Lily. “Hmm… But you’re not that tramp, are you, lass?”

“Course she’s not,” says the bartender gruffly. “That walleyed kook could hardly stand on them crooked legs of hers.” She offers a consoling gaze. “No offense to her, son.”

“You misunderstand. This is _my_ son,” Lily clarifies, wrapping a protective arm around Harry’s shoulder.

“He had him another girl?!” questions an enthusiastic drinker.

“Riddle had him another!” proclaims his friend.

They clash their mugs and chug their murky brew.

“I’m not Mr. Riddle’s son!” says Harry irritably.

“How can you be so sure?” Margie asks skeptically.

“He already _has_ a father,” Lily cuts in, shaking her head. “Looks just like him. We’re here to find Riddle for legal matters.”

The locals sound a collective groan of disappointment.

“Ah well,” says the bartender. “Still reckon he’s got one out there somewhere.”

“Ran off with a tramp, that boy did,” Margie tells, nodding wisely.

“But he came back, didn’t he? Riddle?” Harry asks hastily. “He lives here, right?”

Margie rolls her eyes, plants her hands on her hips. “Did you even have you a look? Riddle House is up over the valley. Walk toward the chapel, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” Lily says sharply, ushering Harry in front of herself, pushing him toward the door and keeping her hand knotted in his shirt until the sun hits them again. “Idiots like that have nothing better to do with their time than mill over decades old gossip. Let’s get moving, sweetheart.”

They carry on. Harry pockets his hands in his coat as the winds gain. “Did you hear what they said, though? They must have been talking about Tom’s mum.”

“Shameless, absolutely shameless,” she mutters. “And all while thinking _you_ could be hers! Absolutely rotten.”

“Yeah, I—”

Harry stiffens as darkness glints in his periphery. Moving shadows. He doesn’t look. He knows better. He knows if he were to look, he’d see Tom, young and hungry-eyed and taciturn. Not the real Tom, of course. _Residual hallucination_. According to Lily, it’s common. But this doesn’t make it easier to tolerate. Especially when it’s not Tom, but Vernon, or the disembodied echo of the hiss. He shakes his head tensely, in two great jerks.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Harry swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, no worries.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to deal with this?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Then… Maybe you should look up.”

Harry follows the line of Lily’s determined gaze to a distant dark-haired figure walking alone in the empty trail.

“Tom!”

Harry ignores his mother’s shout. He sprints toward Tom, fast as he can go, even as his legs shake mercilessly beneath him. But he slows when he catches a hint of something off: some added breadth in the shoulders that shouldn’t be there. Harry stops and squints, and realizes that this isn’t his Tom at all.

The man is older, his hair shorter, his face fuller.

But the resemblance leaves no question as to who he is.

“May I help you?” drawls the stranger Riddle.

Harry walks up in slow strides. “Are you Mr. Riddle?”

The man stiffens, frowning. The haughty glaze in his dark brown eyes is strangely reminiscent, as if the personality was born from the seed and not the sewing. “Yes, I am. Have we met?”

“No, we haven’t. I’m looking for your son. For Tom.”

Riddle’s full lips press tightly. “Your name is Harry, is it not?”

Harry’s mouth parts in surprise. “That’s right.”

“Yes, I know who you are. Come here, then,” he orders, waving his fingers lazily.

Harry glances over his shoulder to Lily, uncertain.

“Yes, hell—”

The sharp sting of a slap across his cheek is swift. Harry gasps, dumbstruck, until rage and realization flicker to life. He raises his hand to retaliate, but cannot, for in the same moment, Lily is tugging him back and stepping in his place.

She shoves Mr. Riddle and growls, “How dare you hit my son?!”

“Have you any idea what your son has done to _my_ son?”

“To _your_ son?” Lily spits. “The son you abandoned?”

Mr. Riddle scoffs. “You know nothing of it. Neither of you come near my family. The engagement is off.”

“Engagement?” Lily repeats indignantly. “What engagement?”

Mr. Riddle crosses his arms and holds his chin high with condescension. “Precisely. Your son is a violent menace and he shall have nothing to do with the Riddle name.”

“Violent menace? That’s rich! You don’t know the—”

“LOOK!” Harry shouts.

The parents pause, turning with skeptical frowns.

“This is between me and Tom. And Mr. Riddle, I know you think you’re trying to protect him, but you really don’t know the half of it.”

“I know enough.”

Harry huffs, pointedly throwing his hands to his side. Mr. Riddle’s shoulders are drawn tightly back, a stance of confidence that, in its leering, is unmistakably protective. Christ. He’s really jumped on this whole _father_ train, hasn’t he? Is this what he thinks? That this is his chance to redeem himself? As he is on the verge of deriding the Muggle man, Harry is stalled by a whispery voice, advice spoken low in the back of his mind: _You know what to do, Harry. He values him. Use it._

“Mr. Riddle,” starts Harry slowly, carefully, the words coming out as if he were on autopilot, “please hear me out. Do you really think you can keep him forever? He’ll find me sooner than later, and when I tell him what you’ve tried to do, he’ll resent you for it. Don’t you want him to come back to you?”

“He’ll forget you soon enough."

Harry shakes his head tensely. “I can assure you he won’t. And if you try to keep us apart, he’ll blame _you_. Is that what you want?”

Mr. Riddle turns his nose to the sky, as if in thought.

As if he ever had a choice.

 

*          *          *

 

 _Knock. Knock_.

“Yes?” Tom responds lazily, flipping the next page of his book, uncertain of why the Muggle text interests him so.

Father enters, shutting the door behind him. Draped over his arm are trousers and a pullover.

“These should fit,” he says as he lays them by Tom’s feet.

“Kicking me out so soon?” Tom comments dryly, eyeing the clothes with an upraised brow.

“Why are you so insistent that I don’t want you here?” Father returns curtly. “Just see if they suit you. If not, I can find something else.”

Tom sets _Dorian Gray_ on the nightstand and slides out from beneath the covers, standing to change from his silken nightwear to the offered attire. With his abdomen bear, he stops to assess his ribs, lightly purpled on either side. He has yet to see his face since morning, but he supposes it’s fared as well. He pulls long legs through denim, tugs over dark brown wool, and glances in the boudoir mirror. The waistline of the trousers is comfortably loose, the pullover a perfect fit.

“Yes, all is well,” Tom concludes, picking at the back of his collar to change again.

“No, keep it on,” Father insists. “I’ve had you dress for a reason.”

“And that reason is?”

“I’m not sure it was wise, but… Well, have a seat,” he says, gesturing at the bed. Tom doesn’t respond until a pitiful, “Please?” convinces him to sit.

Father takes the ottoman opposite him. “You know that I had no authority in your conception. You know that.”

“You’ve made me aware, yes,” Tom says stiffly.

“I know it’s an awful thing to hear,” Father says, eyes averted, “but imagination makes it no less awful. That’s why I want you to know the truth about your mother. It was no casual affair, what we had. It was a nightmare. I was nineteen when it began, on summer holiday from university. She came to my door, filthy and dressed in rags, and begged me for a meal. I was reluctant, but she told me her father and brother were in prison, and that no one would give her a job... She was just a teenager herself, you see, so I took pity on her. I brought her to the table, had Mrs. Deavers prepare a meal, sat with her for tea…and then she did something…”

His voice trails emptily, having fallen lighter and lighter with each word. Tom stares at him blankly. He clears his throat and continues.

“I don’t know what it was. I don’t know how she did it. But I suddenly _wanted_ her, I wanted to marry her. Her! Of all people! Of course, I didn’t really desire her. She was not merely below average; she was _beneath contempt_. Hideous. Odd. Pale and stuttering and poorly kempt. On the inside, I was disgusted by every minute we spent together, but I just kept…kept acting like I was happy, like my body had a mind of its own. Yes, I was like a zombie. It was dreadful. Mother and Father stopped returning my calls, said I’d gone mad. And I had. I wanted so much for them to find me, take me away from her, but they never did…

“Well, there were times when I almost managed to escape. She would sometimes run out of drugs, tie me to the bedpost... Gag me so no one could hear me scream… It was horrid, how she’d do. Once, I managed to free myself and tried to crawl out the front door. But then she found me. Pulled me back in. Forced her dreadful substance down my throat. Another time, I almost slipped out the bathroom window, but she caught me, drugged me, forced me to bathe with her. It went on like this, with me trying to escape, and her always catching me. I was slowly building immunity to the drug and she knew it. On some winter night, I managed to make it halfway down the block, but again, she found me. A couple of people even laughed at us, thought it was _funny._ I slept with one foot chained to the floor from then on. Perhaps this lasted a year, but it could’ve just been months. It was hard to tell the difference. I resigned myself to the horrid conclusion that I would die in that flat—tied up, stabbed, starved, or worse. No amount of screaming or begging could convince her, so what else could I expect? Just as I was considering ways to kill myself, everything changed. Something changed her…”

His heavy brown eyes rove over Tom, sinking from his head to toes, back to the floor, where he stares. “When she became pregnant with you, she grew lazy with my upkeep. It all became about the baby. I know this must sound…well, rotten…but your conception saved my life. It gave me enough slack in the leash to get the hell out of there. I pick-pocketed myself a bus ticket home, and didn’t leave the property for five solid years. Two and a half years of my life were stolen by Merope, and as it turned out, everything else as well.”

Father fidgets with his fingers, nervous and, if Tom is right, expectant of pity. But Tom is unsure if there are words which should even be spoken. It is a bit of a mental story, one that makes him wonder about his mother, the sad and ghastly Merope Gaunt. She was a nutter, no doubt, but she was also much more. _She_ was the one who passed him his noble blood, his Serpent tongue, his magic; who privileged him to enter the world where he belongs.

But what of that world? The world he thought he loved is not a triumphant march against Muggledom; it is in a civil war. The magic aristocracy from which his mother was bred never welcomed him as its own. It will not welcome him as its own, unless he acquiesces to an ideology that prioritizes Malfoys and Notts and Goyles. Is that who he desires to be? A man who prostrates himself before the mediocre? Who concedes his own inferiority?

Staring at Father, who is so pitiful and low, Tom understands now, more fully than ever, that to be a pure-blood is as loathsome as it is to be a wealthy Muggle. And yet in this insipid and quaking man, Tom sees who he must be, if he wishes to be anything at all.

“I hold nothing against you,” Tom says softly, batting his eyelashes carefully, tipping his ear toward his shoulder. 

Father nods. “I say all this, to ask something else. That boy of yours, the one who hurt you. Do you really wish to be with him?”

Tom coughs in the place of laughter, and saddens his eyes just so. “It’s, err, rather more complicated than you think. It wasn’t his fault. We were, ah… on drugs. Just drugs, is all.”

“Just drugs,” Father repeats. “Right. Well, the point is this: he’s here. He came looking for you.”

“Harry? Harry’s here?”

Father nods.

Tom scoffs. Harry has been here the entire time, and yet his time has been wasted on this trifling tale? Ridiculous! He stands at once, combing his hair with the tips of his fingers, clenching his stomach to suppress the sudden urge to heave.

“Where is he? Is he in the foyer?”

“Him and his mother are in the drawing room,” Father replies.

“Bring him to me,” Tom instructs, pointing at the door. “I wish to speak with him alone.”

“Fine,” Father agrees. “But if he attempts anything, I’m alerting the police.”

Father disappears behind the door. Tom stares at it, thinking of nothing but the distant scuttle of footsteps. It is a light trod, a familiar rhythm. Tom buries the creeping false memory of haunted screaming. He must seem composed. He mustn’t let Harry see the effects of the potion. His shoulders are tight and formal when comes the knock.

“Come in, Harry.”

It is almost ominous, how the hinge creaks as the door eases inward. Standing in the hall is Harry without sign of injury. His nervous green stare emboldens Tom to speak again.

“Come in, love.”

He steps forward and shuts the door behind him. Not since their first meeting has Harry blessed Tom with such hesitation. Tom raises his lips in a smile crafted for modesty.

“It’s a very big house, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, uhh… Did you tell your dad that we’re engaged?”

Tom’s smile falters. “I was delirious. The potion, well. You know it didn’t go as planned.”

“You botched it,” Harry says plainly. “But I shouldn’t have…” Harry steps closer, hovering a hand over where Tom’s sore and blue skin. He pulls it back and winces, and finishes, “…I shouldn’t have lost control.”

“Ah, yes,” Tom says airily, “well, where would either of us be if we couldn’t handle a little punch? It’s an easy fix. It’s just that I couldn’t completely heal myself with Father around; he knows nothing of magic.”

“Mum found a bit of skin in the living room. Was that yours?”

“Yes, yes, I splinched myself,” Tom explains impatiently. “The Potion addled my senses, no question there. But you must admit, however angry you may be with me, it was no mistake to take it.”

“Really?” Harry asks indignantly. “And why wasn’t it?”

Tom smirks. “Because it worked. I understand our bond.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, “about that… Isn’t it a bit mental? I mean, having a bit of our souls mixed up together can’t be normal magic.”

“Harry, there’s nothing normal about anything we’ve experienced since we found the diaries. That, I think you’ll find, is a good thing.”

“And was me being tortured a good thing?” Harry says with abrupt urgency, his voice wavering in anger. “That potion did things to my mind, Tom. I still haven’t been able to shake the worst of it! I saw my uncle beating me. I saw myself nearly kill that bully from school. I felt my insides being shredded, Tom. I thought I was going to die.”

Poor Harry verges on tears as his spiel ends—troublesome, but manageable. Tom presses his brows together. “I can only apologize, Harry. I love you. I would never purposefully cause you harm.”

“Yeah, the word _purposefully_ isn’t much of a comfort,” Harry spits, the first tear spilling. “Maybe you do love me, Tom. But I seriously doubt there’s a person you love more than yourself, and since you clearly don’t take much issue with self-mutilation, I’m not exactly sure where this leaves me.”

Tom grimaces as his tolerance slips beneath impulse. “Self-mutilation? I've never mutilated myself. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously? Lower your trousers a bit for me, then. That scar you got with Theodore Nott just a little nick, is it?”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry.  All wizards injure themselves at some point. If I were a weaker man, you wouldn’t even be here. The force of soul-splicing would have killed us both. I knew there were some risks associated with the potion, but aren’t we better off for knowing them?”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry retorts.

“Is it? You have nary a clue what I witnessed, Harry Potter.”

“Then go on, tell me,” Harry encourages hoarsely. “Let me know if _you_ had to run from a voice that made you choke out pieces of your own intestines—could help us bond, couldn’t it?”

“And what if I don’t? Will you see fit to beat the information out of me?”

Harry averts his gaze, his pouted lip held tight, an obvious attempt to stop its quivering. It is a sad picture, and Tom doesn’t much like it. He pulls the hem of his jumper over his fingers, then carefully wipes the streaks of tears, cleaning the soft cheeks before kissing one, slowly. Tom wraps his long limbs around Harry and settles his chin on the slump of his shoulder. It takes Harry a moment to reciprocate, his tension obvious, but soon his hands are clenching Tom’s lower back, and the embrace is proper and warm and all that it should be.

“What are we going to do, Tom?”

“About what?”

“Are we supposed to just move on? Act like our souls aren’t…like it’s just a normal thing…I mean, how could this even happen?”

Tom smiles. “Have I ever told you about Horcruxes, Harry?”

Harry shakes his head.

“I didn’t think so. It’s not a polite conversation topic. Horcruxes are a dangerous bit of rare magic. Only one text is said to mention how to create them, and in most copies, the pages are torn out—my copy included. They’re highly illegal, you see.”

“So, what do they have to do with us?”

“The purpose of the Horcrux is immortality. By storing a piece of your soul in an artefact, you can never truly die. You’re bound to the realm of the living. When I wrote in the diary, I shared parts of myself I never revealed to others, and you did the same to me. We became each other’s vessel.”

Harry pulls away, his handsome face scrunched unpleasantly. “But you’re saying Horcruxes are Dark magic, and we didn’t do anything Dark did we? Why do they have such a bad reputation?”

Tom takes Harry’s wrist beneath his fingers, admiring the rapid thrum of his pulse. Harry is such a coward at times, but no matter. “It is thought the only act which can split the soul is murder. I, however, think the magic is underexplored, and lacking proper explanation. Neither of us have murdered, right?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Zeke. Tom, it was Zeke. I saw him in my vision. I killed him. I thought I’d only put him in a coma but I…I must have—”

He shivers violently and cries in dry sobs. His weight shifts onto Tom, who locks him in a stiff hug, bearing his weight with his upper body. Harry is light, but his trembling is difficult to handle. Tom guides his unsteady feet to the bed and lays beside him, rubbing a hand down his back and hushing him soothingly. Once Harry’s head is buried in Tom’s chest, once saliva and tears are drenching his breast, Tom allows himself one small, indulgent smirk.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry. I never meant to kill him, I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Shh… Everything will be alright, love.”

Everything will be alright indeed. 

They leave the room within the hour, when Harry’s reddened face has calmed to its olive tone. On the outside, Lily and Father share a tea so disagreeable it seems neither have touched the sugar pot. They take to their respective children with suspicious smiles, but, no matter their desires, are met with the explanation perhaps both expected: the relationship has endured, and all is well. Lily, far less hostile than Father, welcomes Tom to return to the Potter home, and Tom accepts, leaving Father with the promise to visit for his birthday on the eve of the new year. The three cross the yard to the woods and Apparate, hand in hand in hand.

 

*          *          *

 

 _Crack_.

Harry, Tom, and Lily appear inside the kitchen. Loud and agitated voices bleed in through the cracked door.

“Just drink the bloody tea.”

“I saw your hand, Potter.”

“You’re absolutely barking!”

Lily clears her throat while flinging the door forward with the wave of her wand. “Severus, James, please.”

Sitting across from James is Severus Snape, the dark and hook-nosed man who visited with the Order. When the nearly black eyes, narrowed in derision, squint as his head tilts back in a haughty gaze, it is all too obvious what his relevance is: the friend his mum mentioned, the man who served time in Azkaban. Harry passes Tom a panicked glance, a sign to quickly exculpate himself of having had anything to do with what must be an intervention. Tom, of course, is as stoic and unreadable as ever.

“Sit,” commands Snape, waving his hand at seats which scoot with his gesture.

The two oblige.

“I am here today not because I have the remotest desire to lecture overambitious children on the ills of Dark magic,” Snape says in a low and tired voice, “but because Lily, my dear friend, has requested my presence.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Tom says slowly, “neither I nor Harry intended to commit Dark magic. It was merely a misunderstanding.”

Snape sneers nastily. “You chanced upon a blood draught in _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ and supposed it was legal? If that were true, I would leave now, for it would mean you were completely and utterly hopeless. But both of us know that to successfully brew what you have—however clumsily you have—requires, ah, _intent_. May I ask which finger you lobbed off? Or perhaps you pulled a tooth?”

Harry scrunches his nose. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Snape asks, half-smiling smugly. “Then I am sure you had little to nothing to do with the brewing process.” He turns briefly to face James. “Congratulations. Your child could be an Auror yet.”

“What does he mean, Tom?”

Tom doesn’t speak.

“Tom?”

“There, there. I know youth is often blind,” Snape says dryly, “but there are times, I fear, when we must accept we’ve unintentionally cannibalized a friend or lover.”

Harry presses his face into his palms. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

Snape tuts. “Being awfully quiet now, aren’t we?”

Tom stays silent, his only hint of anger found in the crease of his brow.

“I am not one to judge, sadly,” Snape says. “I have, as they say, been there and done that, and nearly lost my life for it. Unfortunately, there is no pride in becoming Dark these days. Modernity values sanity.”

“It was a mistake. It won’t happen again,” Tom says quietly.

“Your word is not enough, Riddle. Dumbledore has foolishly allowed you two, mere children, to know more about the Order than was wise, but Grindelwald is no fool. While you were all gone, Potter received a letter. I suppose it is better if he shares the happy news.”

James sighs as he peers down, fidgeting with a roll of parchment. “I wish there was an easy way to say this, Lily, but there’s not. I’ve been fired for conspiring against the Ministry. I’ll be summoned for a hearing in March.”

“What?!” shout Harry and Lily in unison.

“Let me see,” Lily interjects abruptly, having risen from her seat and pulling the letter out of James’s hands. “ _We have perceived intelligence… over the course of several months starting from late May of this year… various meetings in which you have been identified as one of several conspirators… will require a criminal investigation, followed by a hearing the fifteenth of March… could possibly be charged with high treason_.”

Harry’s mouth suddenly feels dry as sandpaper, fists curled around the arms of his chair as he looks at the grim expression on Snape’s face, the pained look in his father’s eyes, and the pale countenance on his mother.

“On what grounds?” Tom asks softly.

“Witness testimony, documentation—they must have seen the letters, James,” Lily says, a tremor in her voice and for a moment Harry mistakes it with fear, until Lily looks up from the letter and her jaw is clenched in barely suppressed rage. “The ones Peter insisted you write to him while he was out of the country in the summer, remember? Keeping him up to date with Dumbledore’s plans? He was baiting you.”

“Why would he—”

“Does it matter why?” Lily erupts, hurling the Minister’s letter down onto the coffee table, Tom delicately picking it up to skim through it himself. “You could go to Azkaban for this, James!”

“What did you write in these letters? Anything substantial?” Tom inquires.

“Nothing that could believably be used against me in court,” James replies with a shake of his head. “In a fair court, anyway.”

“What now?” Harry interrupts, heart pounding, that same sentence still echoing in his head because he knows what this means, has seen it all before, white-knuckled grip starting to ache in his arms.

His parents turn to look at him, pausing in their anger and shock, Lily the first to reply. “We’ll have to inform Albus, but there’s not much else we can do. Your father is grounded until further notice. He’s lucky they won’t send anyone to destroy his wand, if nothing else.”

“So that’s it?” Harry bites out in spite of himself. “Just sit here and do nothing while they hold some farce of an investigation and wait for the hearing? He’s probably just betting on you being cowed enough not to fight the decision, but there’s got to be someone in the Ministry that would protest this! Other Aurors, the Head of your Office—”

James’s eyes widen slightly in realisation. “Harry is right. Rufus and Amelia can’t have known about this; the letter is directly from Grindelwald himself. He must have bypassed them. Has he gone mad? He’ll have a revolt within the Ministry if he keeps undermining his officials.”

“And so, you understand my fear,” Snape says resolutely, staring directly at Tom, whose contemplative lip-biting makes him and his crime seem small compared to the latest development. “We cannot afford to entertain another rat within our midst.”

“Tom is not a rat!” Harry shouts.

“Forgive me if I find your judgment lacking,” Snape says baldly. “We do not yet suspect you of wrongdoing, Riddle. But it is important that you know the stakes. I know Gellert Grindewald well. He likes talented children who express interest in the Dark Arts. He will come to you, offer you a place in his ranks. He will attempt to persuade you with knowledge of magic which Dumbledore wouldn’t dare touch. It is easy to say now that you would not pursue it, but once your taste for the Dark has become an appetite, you will not feel so moral. You will scarcely care at all.”

“I am not tempted by Grindelwald, Mr. Snape,” Tom says certainly.

Snape nods. “Then you will not object to our procession. We will remain in contact through written correspondence.” He reaches into his robe pocket and retrieves a white-feathered quill. “You shall respond to me weekly with this. It is a quill of my own design, laced with Veritaserum properties to ensure whatever is written, is honest.”

Tom accepts the quill. “And what are we to discuss?”

“You’ll shall see soon enough,” Snape says cryptically.

“How do we know these letters won’t be read?” Harry asks in a burst, looking between his father and Snape. “What if they get Tom in trouble with the Ministry?”

“They will not be delivered by owl,” Snape explains.

“Then how will they be delivered?”

“You needn’t worry about it.”

“I’ll gladly comply with anything that is asked of me,” Tom tells the table, eyes focused on his hands, interlinked atop the wood. “Mr. Snape, I thank you for your time. Mr. and Mrs. Potter, I apologize for the needless stress I’ve caused your family. I am in your debt.”

Little is left to be said, so the table sits in silence. All that Harry wishes he could say, he cannot, either because the words are useless, or because they are too unbearable to speak. He is too numb to cry when the lights go out, and he is alone with his thoughts and the distant pair of eyes which watch him from the corner of his room. He wakes Tom for the comfort of company, waiting for the illusion to disappear as he shares the vision in its entirety, hoping to gain power over the memory.

And it works—the eyes disappear.

But then, unlike the residual hallucinations, reality cannot be outpaced. He curls inside Tom’s arms and waits for dawn.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you come across chapters that are, for some inexplicable reason, really hard to write? That's how I felt about this one. But feedback is the greatest motivator, and I'm always inspired by your kind words of encouragement/enthusiasm. (For example, the Snape-as-a-mentor thing was a very vague idea which was incorporated because a couple of people were into it... which is really cool!)
> 
> Let me know what you think. <3
> 
> \- Amelinda


	3. Return to Hogwarts

“Faster!”

“I can’t!”

“Do it!”

A dark red streak of light slaps sleek holly to the grass. Harry scowls.

“Pick it up,” Tom commands, gesturing with his wand.

Harry restrains the urge to riposte. He can’t just ‘pick it up’—the second his fingers make contact with his wand, Tom will strike, and Harry will be forced to stomach more criticism. Dueling with Tom is much like confronting a viper. He’s always leering, skulking, waiting to _snap_.

“Please, take your time.”

Right. If Tom’s wants to act like a snake, then he must be dealt with like a snake. Harry thinks back to the animal documentaries Uncle Vernon was so fond of, where the serpents slithered off filled with rats and frogs and moles. Who were the victors in these matches? Flying things. Hawks and vultures, mostly. They won by sweeping in from out of sight, before the snakes could detect danger. But how’s Harry supposed to get an angle on Tom? They’re in a bloody garden. Indirect attack is nearly impossible, unless… Harry almost smiles.

He dives for his wand, grips, and rolls forward to his feet, slashing its tip in an upward movement and murmuring an incantation. Tom swishes in deflection, but there is nothing to repel: Harry wasn’t aiming at him. The distinct ‘crack’ of wood turns Tom’s attention up, where a thick red oak bough snaps from its trunk and plunges downward. Tom lassos his wand and incinerates the bough. Before he can return his attention to Harry, Harry takes his aim.

“Stupefy!”

Tom grunts and steps back, nearly losing balance as he hugs his arms around his stomach.

"Ha!"

“Not bad,” Tom grants.

He flicks his wrist and silently throws Harry to his arse with a Knockback Jinx.

“Oh, come on! If that’d been the Killing Curse, you’d be dead right now.”

“If we were fighting to the death, things would be quite a bit different, Harry. Now get up.”

“No,” says Harry defiantly. “I’m finished for today. All you’ve done is jinx me and boss me around.”

“I’d hardly call what I’ve done jinxing,” Tom says, kneeling at Harry’s eye level. A thin trail of blood leaks from his nostril. He points at it and grins. “Ever heard of restraint?”

Harry blushes and rubs his thumb along Tom’s philtrum. The blood smears thinly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I put so much force into it.”

He would never hurt Tom intentionally, never. But his knobbly knuckles still sting with phantom pain, and in his nightmares, he still sees Tom, bruised and begging.

“I’m going to fly for a bit,” Harry mutters. “I need to clear my head.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just, you know… just want to go for a ride, is all.”

Tom grasps Harry’s hand. His cold touch is soft but for the wand-calloused edges. “Why lie to me?”

“I’m just a little worn out, OK? All you’ve wanted to do since coming back is drill as much information into my head as possible, and I get that. I do. We’ve got to be prepared for what’s coming and I’m incredibly far behind everybody else… What I don’t understand is why training is _all_ we’ve done. Shouldn’t we be talking things out? We can’t just go back to Hogwarts tomorrow pretending nothing ever happened.”

The expected silence stretches for a moment. Tom settles fully on ground while keeping hold of Harry. Then he smiles insincerely.

“I apologize if I’ve been too hard on you. What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs. “What about our soul-bond? If it really does rely on Horcrux logic like you’ve said, maybe we should seek some private counsel. Lupin probably wouldn’t be a good choice, but what about Slughorn? Mum says he’s one of the smartest at Hogwarts.”

Tom’s eyes flicker as his grip tightens. The pain, if small, is enough to unsettle Harry, who reels back his hand with a sharp tug.

( _‘Hurt him,’_ urges the nasty impulse in the back of his head.)

“You scared me.”

“You should be scared,” Tom says gravely. “You are never to speak of that.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Of Horcruxes. Nothing we learned from the draught is to be discussed, least of all the matter of our souls.”

“Aren’t you even a bit nervous about what it all means, Tom?” Harry snaps back. “It feels like something’s gone wrong inside of me. I get these… these _weird_ feelings, things I can’t explain.”

An indignant smirk curves. “Do you think I’ve been unaffected by this? It is what it is, Harry. We shall investigate it on our own terms, and in due time, we’ll find an answer. For now, pursuing information is unsafe.”

“OK, fine,” says Harry, crossing his arms. “I’ll just follow your lead and fake my life away. Whatever. You still have blood on your nose, by the way.”

“Perhaps I’ll leave it there and give your parents more reason to suspect me of wrongdoing. Maybe I can even nab a new therapy pen pal.”

Harry, frowning, runs his tongue down his thumb and presses it Tom’s mouth, rubbing off the remainder of blood. “I dunno. You may be the potentially deranged junky, but I’m the violent nutter, remember?”

“You? A violent nutter?” Tom questions airily, obviously joking, tilting his head in mock disbelief.

“Maybe nutter isn’t right,” Harry says. He picks blades of grass by the handfuls and tosses them into the chill wind. “I believe the wording your father used is ‘violent menace’—you know, right after he slapped me.”

“No, that nutcase wouldn’t dare call another man a nutter, would he?” Tom says as he plucks one blade from the air and squeezes it in his fist. “But his name shall prove useful.”

He unfurls his hand, revealing a flame that burns blue in his palm.

“Knock it off, pyro. You sound mental."

“Don’t you get it? As far as anyone’s concerned, I’m a Muggle-born. I no longer see reason to challenge this idea.”

Fading remembrances of bloated rhetoric come to mind. He uses his soil-dirty hands to close Tom’s fingers, extinguishing his magic.

“Fancy yourself a revolutionary, do you?”

Tom’s eyes narrow. The insane air of danger burns hotly on Harry’s skin.

“Would it be enough to overthrow the Minister, Harry? Would it change the purebloods’ wealth? Would it uproot half-bloods’ shallowly buried prejudices?”

“No,” he admits somberly, green eyes rolling to the side, where the worried gaze of his mother peers between a slit of curtains. “I guess it wouldn’t."

 

*          *          *

 

The Hogwarts Express strides its track to Scotland as the sun glitters off snow-topped mountains.

Harry has, for hours, sat silently with his temple pressed against the window. Tom turns a page deeper into _Spells and Semiotics_.

 _“_ _As Otwald Slinkhard speculated in his theory of perlocutionary incanting, intellectual displacement must precede the spoken invocation. The symbolic censor of Latin, Greek, or Runic verse augments the mind of the caster, allowing them to recognize, at once, the intent of the incantation without disrupting the oral articulation with lexical semantics. Slinkhard’s theory, if a critical step in advancing our understanding of spell-work, famously lacks universality. Less famously, it lacks appreciation for spells in the wand-cast tradition which demand associative power. Examples are plentiful, beginning most pertinently with Sacrifice Charms. Without associative power, Sacrifice Charms, constructed through interwoven moods and memories, lack their profound nuances. In other words, they are rendered vulnerable by —”_

Loud conversation disrupts Tom’s reading.

“—not really fair of Ginny, is it?”

“Well,” whines Granger knowingly, flipping through last month’s issue of _Potions Monthly_ , “I don’t think it’s anything personal. She’s just not used to having another girl around the house.”

“Doesn’t give her the right,” Weasley mutters.

“No, I suppose—wow! Now _that’s_ interesting,” she says suddenly, gripping the magazine and folding in her sparse brows. “Tom, have you heard? Researchers from the Mapuche tribe in Patagonia recently uncovered hidden properties in a rare indigenous carp population.”

“Have they?”

“Yes, it’s said that by dicing the dorsal fin, you can improve longevity by thirty percent in serums derived from boomslang venom.”

“Likely, they’ve known it for centuries,” Tom surmises half-heartedly, wondering why Harry is so interested in the landscape. “It’s not uncommon for some indigenous population or another to surface old discoveries to attract broader funding.”

“Makes sense, I reckon,” agrees Weasley.

“Er. no. Bit of a racist thing to say, really,” she says hesitantly, her voice pitched uncomfortably high.

“Racist?” he parrots, a dark brow inching up.

The compartment door slides open.

“Who’s racist?” asks Lovegood dreamily, stepping in with the girl Weasley and Longbottom in tow, each carrying sweets fetched from the trolley lady.

“Riddle,” Weasley responds.

Little Weasley shrugs and plops to Tom’s left. “Slytherin, innit?”

Tom shakes his head. “It was only a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding about race,” Harry adds.

“Oh? Finally lost interest in the window, have you?”

Lovegood taps the glass. “It is a very lovely sight.”

“Not as lovely as Riddle thinks he is, mind,” says Weasley.

“Enough fighting!” Granger shouts. “I only mentioned that it’s wrong to assume indigenous Americans are recycling old discoveries for funding. And you were quick to think as much, Ronald, so don’t get too smug!”

Little Weasley claps Tom on the shoulder (and he carefully remains unresponsive). “Don’t worry about it, Tom. Ron just likes to slag off people he feels threatened by.”

“Ha!” her brother belts, plainly unamused. “You’re one to talk. You’re so jealous of Fleur, I expect you'll be speaking French any day now.”

Her freckled face burns bright red. “I am _not_ jealous of Phlegm.”

“Phlegm?” Harry questions.

“Their older brother’s fiancé,” supplies Granger.

“Admit it. You’re determined to hate Fleur just because she’s got better looks.”

Tom remembers white-gold hair and a heavy accent, and it clicks. “Fleur Delacour? The Veela from Beauxbatons?”

Weasley nods. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Wait,” Harry says, looking quite confused, “a Veela? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“No, I met her once. She can’t be full-blooded,” Tom speculates. 

Lovegood turns from the window with bright bugged eyes. “I found her to be quite magnetic.”

“So did Ron,” Granger adds, giggling. “Went and asked her to the Yule Ball before he even introduced himself.”

“I was under the influence,” he defends, arms crossing.

Longbottom perks up from his Chocolate Frog. “I remember that!”

“Couldn’t help it, could I? A bloke can’t get within two feet of her without feeling something.”

“It’s not only boys who feel it,” Granger corrects. “I saw plenty of girls pining after her, too.”

The little Weasley abruptly stands and shuffles out of the compartment, cussing beneath her breath. Lovegood steps out to follow. Her pale brows go together in an uncharacteristic furrow of determination, but before she exits, with her body halfway between the sliding doors, she softly says the oddest thing:

“It is nice to have friends, isn’t it?”

 

*          *          *

 

“Welcome, welcome,” greets Dumbledore from the lectern.

The sequins of his bright fuchsia robes reflect wall-hung flames and shimmer as he speaks. His words are strange and vague and unclear, peppered by occasional eccentric outbursts, which earn him sneers from the Slytherin table. Even Tom, who has all but pledged himself to Dumbledore, scowls and whispers to Theo Nott at his right, who snickers at the little inside joke. Further along the table, Malfoy leans back, his nose shriveled in disgust as Parkinson bends in and whispers.

Maybe the Houses do have some value, Harry thinks; they keep the greatest lot of gobby prats separate from the normal human beings.

“Calm down, mate,” Ron murmurs.

Harry blinks, confused. Then he notices his fingers are wound into fists. He relaxes and sighs, waiting for it all to end, thinking it is strange that he sits here, with a bunch of children, when it is known he is meant for a higher purpose than fighting off the pink-satin bureaucrat standing beside Dumbledore with her ugly little grin.

“Now, a message from your High Inquisitor.”

Only the Slytherins and a smattering of Ravenclaws dare to clap. Umbridge steps her squat legs atop a booster and peers over the lectern, sloping in with a predatory smirk.

“How lovely it is to see your excitement for the coming semester. Having assessed results from your end-of-term finals, the Ministry is pleased to announce its profound satisfaction with the improvements made by faculty, staff, and students at Hogwarts School. Performance evaluations were distributed to your teachers during the winter recess, with which they have been advised to amend their lessons for the benefit of your education.

“I, personally, will continue to monitor the happenings here at Hogwarts while also overseeing the registration of students to the Muggle-born Registry. My office hours will be posted outside of my door in the West Towers.” She gurgles a high-pitched giggle. “I look forward to seeing you.”

As the red-hooded students stir down the table, gestures fidgety and eager for a fight, Harry tightens his mouth and sends a stern glare to the D.A. members who glance his way: not here and not now.

The time to complain will come later, in the Common Room, where pinky-the-toad can't hear. But Harry has no interest in that. After grinding down a meager dinner in silence, he leaves for the dorm on his own, slipping through the hallways with the light-footed step of a ghoul. As anticipated, his attempt at sneaking off ends in failure, failing for the very reason he knew it would. When the familiar pattern of steady steps clack up from behind, he turns with a strained smile.

“Running off without me?” Tom asks, pouting in a silly mock of real emotion. “That hurts.”

“I’m just tired, you know. It’s suffocating here. I don’t expect you feel same way.”

“When you suffer, I suffer. I trust you know that by now.”

Long fingers curl around Harry’s wrist, making Harry feel at once both small and weak, and yet deeply wanted. He abandons concerns about getting caught and kisses Tom briefly, tasting mint and, faintly, sweat. Tom pulls back and glances over his shoulder at the empty corridor.

“What is with you, Harry? You’re not still having hallucinations, are you?”

Harry shakes his head. “I want to go home, Tom. I want to spend what little time I have left with my dad before he gets locked up in Azkaban. I know you don’t get nervous, but some of us mere mortals do.”

“I’m nervous, too,” Tom says, his thumb rolling repetitively over Harry’s veins. “But I see no reason to wallow around in it. Especially not when there’s work to be done. Which is why I followed you out here in the first place.”

“Did something happen?”

Tom smiles deviously, and speaks so lowly that his voice is fainter than a whisper. “Fraternity happened, my love. I’m sure there’s an empty classroom in the dungeons. Come with me and I’ll explain everything.”

A sudden jolt of something rare hits Harry as Tom guides him away, strolling off to learn about a new insight, a new reason to fight; he feels, perhaps for the first time since Christmas, as if his life is worth living.

And yet as Tom divulges the plan, he reveals, in the smallest of details, the bone-deepness of his sad and callow soul. Theo Nott, his vital informant, is a “weedy little rabbit who will, at least, prove useful”; Hermione is “grating” and Ron is “dumb” and Ginny would be tolerable if she would put a stop to her “lezzer” angst and “bed that wackjob, Loony, already.”

But it is not the name-calling which unsettles Harry, really. It is the subtle mouth breathing, the ridiculous laugh, the hot flushing of bleach-white cheeks—it is all that accompanies the slyest indication that these people, their friends and allies, are, to Tom, nothing more than tools; and will this ever change?

“You look lovely,” says smooth baritone.

Harry, sat upon Tom’s lap, brushes away his touch. “You’re more attractive, and you know it.”

“Is that pet talk, or are you actually accusing me?”

Harry shrugs, feeling petulant. “You know it’s true.”

“No, I’m not sure that I do.”

“Oh, come off it!”

“Compared to you,” Tom says, his cool finger tips gathering around Harry’s neck, lacing at the nape, “I look boring. I’m too tall, too thin, too brown-eyed. And you? Well, just look at you. You’re none of these things. You’re perfect.”

Admiration and distrust secure tight holds at either ends of Harry, tugging at him sharply, making him doubt his judgment of Tom, but then also making him doubt himself for _doubting_ himself. It is hard to be told that he is 'perfect' by someone who is handsome and clever and whole, especially knowing it must be a lie.

Yet Tom’s voice lacks the affect and charm it adopts when, and only when, there is need to make-believe: he is being honest.

He is seeing through Harry’s flaws and accepting him, loving him, for who he is.

Harry is the selfish bastard here; not Tom.

He mumbles a feeble, “Sorry,” and rests his cheek on the crook of Tom’s shoulder.

And for some odd reason, Tom unhooks Harry’s robes and sinks to his knees. He lays his own cloak on the cold and dusty stone, and next lays Harry across it. His illegal mouth is wet and warm in the carnal hour, doing all that Harry has taught it to do.

It is not until completion, when Tom rejects Harry’s attempt to repay the favor, that Harry comprehends the intent behind the act.

“I wasn’t angry with you, Tom.”

“I didn’t think you were, my love.”

The dishonest pomp in Tom’s tone is all it requires for Harry to feel certain he has never hated himself more than he does tonight.

 

*          *          *

 

“Set, aim, fire!”

The Room of Requirement explodes with vibrant yellow light and pink plastic limbs. Tom, at the helm of the exercise, side-steps a fat faux-leg and shouts, “Again!”

After meeting the Order of the Phoenix, two details became all too clear to Tom: one, the D.A. must take bolder action against Umbridge; and two, they must, ah, prune the weaker members, delegate them to tasks which suit what little skills they demonstrate.

He watches each body carefully, observing how form and power vary from person-to-person. Chang, Lovegood, and Edgecombe, though well-positioned and prompt, lack force. Most Gryffindors are their opposites, with Thomas and Finnegan and Johnson slamming out spells with abandon, pouring in all their heart and so little of their mind. The Hufflepuffs are the greatest disappointment, and no shocker there. Tom takes special pleasure in observing Zacharias Smith’s incompetence; the bloody moron can hardly keep his elbow from knocking into his equally foolish housemate, Susan Bones.

“They’re doing well, aren’t they?” Granger says hopefully.

Tom politely nods. Though he couldn’t disagree more. It is a simple hex, one he taught himself as a second-year, and yet they struggle? Pitiful. Harry is a first-year for all intents and purposes, and even he fairs better than half the lot. In fact, he is among the best: his knees are perfectly bent, his back is at the right arch, his wand-arm is toned and contained. As Harry casts, wild hairs stick to skin, the jagged angle of his scar obscured, in part, by the wayward fringe.

“Riddle, look out!”

Instinct guides Tom’s wand to where he catches a stray beam of light. He sends it to the floor.

The little one, Dennis Creevey, runs through the crowd and prostrates before Tom’s feet. “I’m so sorry, Riddle! It was an accident.”

“Stand up,” Tom says softly.

Creevey obeys, revealing a plain face twisted in regret.

Tom pats his thin arm, smiles. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dennis. It was a good shot, if poorly aimed.”

His pallid lips stretch wide over crooked teeth. He scurries off and casts the spell again, now with confidence and, most incredibly, relative accuracy.

“I believe it’s obvious who belongs on the task force,” Tom says privately to Granger as they observe.

She nods. “Yes, probably so.”

The night ends with the usual pep talk, this time announced by Dean Thomas, whose populist rambling motivates applause. When the others are gone, five remain: Tom, Harry, Granger, and the Weasleys.

Is it Tom's ideal bevy? No, but they are dependable and skilled. For her size, Ginny Weasley is strong, and among the best duelists at Hogwarts. Ron lacks his sister’s fine skill, but for it, he compensates with tactical dexterity.

As they gather, Harry laughs giddily. It is jarring to hear, but then, it shouldn’t be—Harry used to laugh so loudly, so often that it was commonplace, uninteresting. It seems those days are gone.

“So,” says Harry, grinning, “how would you guys like to join our secret task force tomorrow?” 

 

 -

 

“Malfoy should be here in ten minutes. Assume your positions.”

Sectioning off, Granger the Weasleys assemble on the corridor bench, fading into the background as students going about typical business, not at all looking like the soldier they’ll soon become. Tom stands with Harry to the side, shoulder leaning on the wall.

Their mission is simple, albeit uncertain—they don’t quite know what they’re here to intercept, but Tom suspects it’s worth their effort. Over break, at a family function, Nott heard Malfoy brag that his father would send an important package on the first Hogsmeade weekend, one for Umbridge which Dumbledore mustn’t know about.

“Won’t I look a fool if he doesn’t come this route?” Tom jokes lightly to Harry, drumming a finger against his chin. “But I know he must. It’s the quickest way from the owlery to Umbridge’s office.”

Sure enough, it is only minutes before he catches a glint in the reflection of Harry’s glasses, cuing him to turn and see Malfoy, thankfully lacking his two goons. Tom waits for the footsteps to pass Granger and the Weasleys, ensuring that they’re out of sight when he makes himself known.

“Ah, another care package from the mother?” Tom asks tauntingly, eyeing the large brown box Malfoy levitates before him. “I do hope she included your favorites.”

Malfoy scoffs. “What? Sad your mummy can’t be arsed to do the same for you?” He smiles derisively. “Oh, wait. You haven’t got one, have you?” His eyes shift to Harry. “And don’t you be so smug, Potter. Won’t be long before your Mudblood mother’s gone the same way as whatever whore sucked the spunk of Riddle’s father.”

Tom arches a brow at that. It’s a petty blow, even by Malfoy standards.

This will work splendidly

“Come on, Malfoy,” Tom says calmly. “Words cut deep, but some curses last forever. Want a proper duel?”

Tom raises his wand and takes control of Malfoy’s box, sending it to the ground with a thud. Malfoy growls and pulls out his own wand, raising it threateningly at Tom, seeming to forget the box entirely. Tom flicks his wand, scooting the box to the side. It gives the impression of merely moving it out of the way, allowing Granger to slowly levitate it back to herself and the Weasleys.

“Why are you looking for a fight, Riddle?”

In Tom’s distant periphery, Granger turns the corner, box in possession, leaving the Weasleys as backup. Too bloody easy.

“Is Potter really so boring?”

"Yeah," says Harry. "I guess I sort of peaked sometime after I was ripped through a rift in the space-time continuum. Still makes a good story, I reckon."

Tom inhales deeply and lowers his wand, grabbing Harry by the shoulder with his free hand. “Just grab your box and leave us, Malfoy. You’ve made your point.”

The smarmy look Malfoy shoots melts into horror when he realizes his precious box has disappeared.

“What have you done with it?” Malfoy all but shrieks, pointing his wand at Tom.

Tom raises his hands defensively, appearing sincere. “I didn’t touch it, I swear. Did you see either of us move?”

“Oi, Malfoy!” Ginny shouts, standing from the bench. “I think a couple of first-years nicked it and ran off while you weren’t looking. They went that way, to the right,” she points. “Hufflepuffs, I think.”

Like the disastrously thick moron he is, Malfoy splits in a dash, taking a turn in the opposite of Granger’s direction.

“I can’t believe that worked.” 

When they find Granger in the Room of Requirement, she’s already opened the box. Inside are simple shortbread biscuits.

“All that effort just for this?” Ginny says skeptically.

“Malfoy wouldn’t have shat himself over a box of lost biscuits,” Ron reasons, though he doesn’t look very impressed with its contents either. Granger takes one out, sniffing it, then splitting it in two.

“They seem like any other ordinary biscuits, unless… unless they’re laced with something, probably odourless since I can’t—” She stops in mid-sentence, eyes widening. “Veritaserum?”

“She’s dosing students now, huh?” Ginny remarks grimly.

“At least it’s not poison."

“Don’t jinx it.”

Ginny kicks at the box and growls. “I’m sick of this shite. We should go straight to McGonagall with this.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Tom points out.

“Why not?”

“Because stealing another student’s package from beneath his nose isn’t exactly the sort of behavior Professor McGonagall commends.”

“Then what should we do?”

“We shut up,” Harry says bluntly. “We shut up, keep our noses down, and look for more opportunities to intervene.”

“You mean we do nothing,” Ginny retorts.

“There is a difference between strategy and complacency, Ginny.”

Her pink-painted lips pucker testily, making her young face seem almost prepubescent. “It sounds to me like you’re all a bunch of cowards.”

"You can't be serious, Gin," Ron says sharply. "What would you recommend? Should I run around naked throwing biscuits at everyone? Would that be bold enough for you?"

"Whatever. I'm out here."

No one stops her in her mad rampage out the door.

Granger exhales slowly. “What has gotten into her lately?”

“I don’t know,” Ron says crossly, falling to the couch with a hard-pressed scowl. “But she’s one foul comment away from me telling the whole school about the time she got her head stuck in the toilet.”

Granger sits close to his side, closer than a mere friend would choose to sit. “Knowing Ginny, you’ll get your chance before the sun goes down.”

 

 -

 

Midnight proves Granger wrong.

Ginny Weasley stays at a distance throughout the next day, sneering at the world, not bothering to wave in the corridor or say a word at meals. So far as Tom can tell, she lives in monastic silence until the first D.A. meeting of the week when, hand-in-hand with Terry Boot, she announces something so painfully Gryffindor, Tom must hold his breath and count to ten.

“After persistent pestering from yours truly, Professor McGonagall has finally rejected my tenth attempt at authorizing a party in the Gryffindor Common Room. So, I say, to hell with her. This Saturday, Terry and I are throwing a rager right here in the Room of Requirement. If anyone outside of the D.A. learns about it, your arse will be mounted above my family mantel. If you’ve got any questions, keep them to yourself.

“I hope to see you all here, but remember—your arse, my family mantel, no outsiders, no questions, no problem.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a week away from my bachelor's and still harbor every desire to procrastinate my final essays. So, an update! 
> 
> This chapter is wild. The next chapter will be wild. I have no regrets.


	4. Ginny's Carousal

_Riddle:_

_You know the terms of our arrangement. I write to you because it was requested by a woman I greatly respect. Do not mistake this gesture as a vested concern in your well-being. I am not Lily. I do not like children._

_But I must confess myself somewhat curious. It is quite uncommon for the Hat to sort Muggle-raised students into Slytherin. Why do you believe this choice was made?_

_If I feel your response is sufficient, I may even consider telling you where you went wrong when brewing that draught of yours._

_Signed,_

_S. Snape_

_P.S. At the top of your response, I must ask you to declare your commitment to abstaining from the Dark Arts. If, for some reason, you have indulged, then simply admit to it. I shall judge whether the infraction is worth intervention. Paltry hexes and jinxes may be omitted from consideration._

 

*          *          *

 

The letter is all Tom thinks of in Slughorn’s class, which comes as no great loss to his education; under the new Ministry curriculum, emphasis has shifted to rare antidotes, the type lacking both nuanced theory and practical value. Harry, too, seems disenchanted by the lesson. He slouches in his seat and stares blankly at the cauldron, returning to earth only when Slughorn commands them to start their brew with a measure of lacewing flies.

Tom retrieves Snape’s parchment from his bag, holding it so that Harry can see. “Did you put this on my pillow?”

Harry, unfazed, glances askance, then back to his textbook. “How could I have?”

“You’re the only person who can pass the wards on my bed,” Tom explains quietly. “If it wasn’t you, then I don’t know who delivered it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a letter from your mother’s friend.”

Harry shrugs and continues to work in silence.

A red-hot spark of violence flashes in Tom, deepening his cheeks with a pale flush. He must calm himself. He exhales slowly in a backward count—ten, nine, eight…

“Ugh!” Harry grunts, pushing the brass scales dangerously near the edge of the desk. “Forget it. I can’t get it right. You brew it.”

…seven, six, five, four, three—

“Are you even listening?” Harry whispers hoarsely.

—two, one…

“Calm down,” Tom says evenly. “Look.”

He takes Harry’s hand with a feather-light touch and unfolds each clenched finger until his palm lay flat. His own long fingers pinch the wings, one by one, and place them on the faint-lined skin.  

“A tenth of a pound is approximately half a handful. The precision of lacewing and doxy parts are not so important in this potion, and that is true of all antidotes which use Runespoor venom derivatives.”

Harry slowly trickles the wings into his cauldron.

“Stir twice,” Tom instructs. “Then add a drop of Mooncalf saliva.”

“OK,” Harry complies, following Tom’s direction and eyeing the text. “It says here we need to let it simmer until the wings glow green. In the meantime, do you want to tell me what Snape wrote?”

“Nothing important,” Tom assures dismissively. “He’s a very unpleasant person, I gather.”

“He looks it. Mum says he smart, at least. That should count for something.”

“Yes, well. Being smart doesn’t make you sensible.”

Harry’s brows raise slowly as he lifts his chin. His lips part, just slightly, before easing into a small smile. Tom stares back curiously.

“I know that, Tom.”

Tom presses the obnoxious letter back into leather with a frown.

 

 -

 

Getting past the ward is a clever trick, yes. But it is still bothersome.

During lunch break, Tom slips further down the dungeons, back to his dormitory, where he can test his wards without interruption. He incants slowly, squinting as the opaque winds shimmer slightly, distorting the emerald green satin. It looks, to him, as if everything is in order, and it must be. He cannot afford the likes of Malfoy tampering with his things.

Which reminds him.

He raises his wand to hex Malfoy’s bed. Blisters or fatigue? Nausea or impotence? So many possibilities, so little time. His lips are nearly articulating the hex when the letter flits past his mind, and all at once, a bitter realization hits him: He must use the Truth Quill when writing to Snape.

He stops, sneers and recommits his wand into an extended trouser pocket.

Then through the door comes one Theo Nott carrying a bowl of gruel. He nods briefly at Tom and sits on his bed, facing him as he spoons in mouthfuls of slop.

“How do you do?” Tom asks as he sits, seeming casual and unperturbed.

“Alright, I suppose. That thing with Draco went well, I’m guessing. He just sort of sulks around lately.”

Tom nods. “Your insight was greatly appreciated.”

“Doesn’t matter much though.”

“Pardon?”

“I saw you submit your registration form to Umbridge’s office yesterday.”

“Following me?” Tom asks sharply.

Another spoonful, a heavy swallow. “It wasn’t wise.”

“What? To submit the paperwork? You’re recommending I break the law?”

“You’re an orphan. You could have leveraged that. Built up a reputation with the housemates that matter.”

“Many have hated me since year one,” Tom retorts. He stands from his bed but remains cavalier in demeanor, his shoulder leaning against the post.

Nott sets his bowl aside, pulls off his knapsack and ruffles through its contents. “Who has? You can’t mean Malfoy.”

“Can I not?”

Nott looks up from his bag, seeming amused. “That’s awfully revisionist of you.”

Tom stretches his cheeks into a curious smile. “How do you recall things, then?”

“Never were either of you were so antagonistic as you are now.”

Their eyes lock and it reminds Tom of the time before Harry, when it was it him and Nott dueling and revising and brewing.

“I’m curious, Theo. If you’re not sympathetic to my cause, then why help me at all?”

“I am sympathetic to you,” Nott says, sighing and tying the string of his bag. “But I have no interest in taking sides. I will help you survive, to the best of my ability, out of respect and recompense.” 

“Recompense?”

“In fifth year. Before you found the diary. Surely I needn’t remind you of the details.”

Ah.

Tom shakes his head. “No. I remember well.”

“Then we understand each other.”

A grateful nod ends the conversation. Tom, feeling odd, fades into his bed, retreating into his mind. He lies back, fingers interlaced, and drifts into the past. Strange to think, but he had, in fact, nearly forgotten about their little misadventure with the jörmungandr scales.

It was cold and wet in early November. Nott stole the vial from his father as he so often liked to do, forever eager to impress Tom with his wealth. Rumor spread in the Common Room that Lizzie Burke learned to astral project by mixing two elementary brews with a pinch of the ancient creature’s shavings. Tom suggested it could be a useful skill in retrieving the O.W.L. questions prior to the test, and, his subtle sycophant, Nott, agreed with a few words of caution: “jörmungandr is toxic when taken in high quantities.”

They tried it cautiously, and predictably, their first attempt failed.

“Too few scales,” Tom speculated.

They attempted it again, slightly increasing the measure. They agreed on bits the length of their fingertips but Nott, unlike Tom, was dimwitted enough to leave his cauldron unattended and unprotected as Tom sat and waited for him to return from the loo. What better way to test a few adjustments?

The two boys bottomed-up their gauntlets in heartfelt chugs.

The potion had no effect at first, other than producing outlandishly painful stomachaches. Then something funny happened to Nott: he jaundiced and began to thrash and scream. Tom placed a Silencing Charm on him and worked through his own nerve-splitting agony to summon the toxins out of Nott’s liver, pulling through pores, drop by drop. Tom had little choice in the matter. If Nott died, Tom would lose his one anchor to the House, and Malfoy’s nastier instincts of cruelty and exclusion would go unchecked.

There was a moment, however, when he contemplated letting him die.

Tom was unfamiliar with death. He’d witnessed it in animals, sure: the terror of the catch, the slow and futile struggle, the gasping and the stirring. It assuaged him as a child, on those days when the horrid and insufferable boredom could not be remedied by books or chess or video games.

Hearing Nott’s guttural sputters sparked a special _something_ which he still hasn’t learned to define, though the sensation was as brief as it was heady. He went to his knees and saved his friend and limped to Slughorn’s office with Nott’s arm draped around his shoulder. Slughorn, a true Slytherin, excused their antics to Madam Pompfrey, claiming it was a Sleeping Draught gone awry. It was never spoken of again, until today.

Is it possible Nott has relived that moment? That it is a meaningful memory, one which he refers back to, thinks about, dreams of? It cannot have formed a genuine life debt—the injury was Tom’s doing, from start to finish.

All that has gone wrong has been Tom’s doing, even before his fingers first met smooth black leather, and before he first set foot in Hogwarts in the fates of that September. Lily Potter does not understand. Severus Snape could, but he is a coward, and cowards succumb to humdrum deaths. If they saw what he saw, if they knew what the Draught told him, then the smokes would clear, and once more, he’d be Tom Riddle alone, accessorized by little lovely Harry Potter.

Tom sinks deeper into the current of memories. The blood, the stench of rot, the cries of hundreds: it all seemed so real. The murderous hands, bone-white and long and odd, felt like his own. It was, and is, an unfathomable sensation. Exhilaration and horror, who knew you two could be so nauseatingly near. Does he like it? Should he pursue it? Was it a caution, or a premonition?

He glances at Nott, reading his textbook, and imagines the day again. Nott, sweating and stammering.

Dying.

Except it isn’t Nott: it is Harry.

And a loud hiss consumes his mind as he sees that bright-red blood sweating through white walls.

_“Harryyyyy Potterrrr……”_

 

*          *          *

 

“Harry.”

“ _Get off, go away!_ ”

“Harry.”

“ _No, go! GO!”_

“HARRY POTTER!”

Harry bursts into consciousness with his heart on speed, his throat choking on matted phlegm. Reality spins into place, his red-and-gold curtaining replacing the tired refrain of metal-buckled lashes and drunken slurs dwindles: it is a memory so old, so out of place, it should not be here at Hogwarts. Wire-rimmed glasses are handed to him by an unmistakable blur of orange and white. He shoves them on and watches Ron come into focus. His freckled face is crinkled in an astonished scowl.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers huskily. His throat sears as if he’s been screaming—and oh, shite, that must be it. He rubs his eyes beneath his lenses. “I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, mate,” Ron says. “We’re the only ones in here. Are you alright?”

Harry shakes his head. “Just a nightmare.”

“Right,” says Ron, his lips pressed tightly.

Harry’s ears burn red. “What? Did I do something?”

“Er,” Ron mutters, scratching at his neck. “This might sound like a weird question, but are you a…Parselmouth?”

Harry blinks.

“Alright, lads?”

In fortuitous timing, Seamus stands at the door entrance, thin paper streamers tangled in his hands. His expression shifts from light-hearted to uneasy.

“Yeah, mate,” Harry assures, standing to his feet. “Ron was just waking me up. Preparing for Saturday, are you?”

Seamus nods, smiling. “T minus three days. You should get out here and help us. Teach us how they do it on that side of the universe, eh?”

Harry resists the urge to spit his truth, to remind Seamus that back there, where he’s from, partying without government sanction is grounds for arrest. But that’d be unfair, and sort of dishonest, as Harry had occasionally ventured past curfew to illicit night clubs when the Dursleys were out of town.

“Yeah,” Harry says, passing a superficial grin. “I can show you a thing or two, I suppose.”

Seamus leads Ron and Harry to the seventh-year boys’ dormitory. It is crammed with crafts and loud with music, with various packs of friends chatting in pockets around the room. Harry and Ron beeline to Hermione and Dean, who lean on a vacant bed, sifting through stacks of records.

“Music, huh?” Ron asks. He quickly browses through the selection and frowns. “These foreign bands or something?”

“They’re Muggle bands!” Hermione giggles, pushing him teasingly. “Nothing too obscure, I promise. Every Muggle-born will know of them.”

Dean glances awkwardly at Harry, but smiles. “Well, nearly all Muggle-borns. I don’t suppose they had Beyoncé where you come from.”

“No, don’t think so,” Harry admits. “I talked it over with my mum once. We have a few songs in common, but they’re mostly hymns and old lullabies.”

Ron waves. “Don’t worry, mate. I haven’t got a clue what a yon-say is.”

Both Dean and Hermione laugh as if Ron’s said the dumbest thing either have ever heard.

“We’ll keep the selection balanced,” Dean assures. “Plenty of old Warbeck throwbacks mixed in here. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw have sent in their requests, too.”

He gestures at two scrolls of parchment lying on the floor. “Unexpectedly typical, really. Ravenclaws have a lot of moody and weird things, and the Hufflepuffs are really into ukuleles, apparently.”

“Oh!” Hermione sounds, smacking her palm to her forehead. “I forgot about Tom. Do you know what he likes, Harry?”

“Dunno,” he mutters.

There is something uncomfortably wrong about bearing a piece of one’s soul without even knowing such a stupidly basic detail about them. Does Tom even like music? He never mentioned it, not that Harry can recall. Music doesn’t suit Tom; it’s fun and frivolous, and Tom is neither of those things, and Harry hates having to think about it, as if he’s the keeper of all that is Tom Riddle. He hates this so very, very much. So acute is his irritation that the fine hairs down his body rise, spiking his adrenalin, spreading in him the dread of being under attack.

(But he isn’t. He’s just acting mental.)

“Knowing him, it’d be something nobody’s ever heard of.”

Dean snaps his fingers and raises his index above his head. “I bet I know—underground Scandinavian heavy metal.”

“Ha!” laughs Hermione. “That’d be all of Slytherin, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah. That and a bit of Chopin, just to throw you off the scent.”

They high-five each other and return to the records, smiling with satisfaction as Ron and Harry, again, simply sigh and shake their heads, with Harry’s jaw clenched that much more tightly than it should be.

It seems to stay that way through the night, the next day, and the day after that. In Defense, Professor Lupin, his perceptive watchdog, squeezes his shoulder and offers a listening ear (Harry refuses). In Transfiguration, Harry doesn’t bother with his wand, and in Charms, he excuses himself to the infirmary, but hides in a far-off toilet stall instead. His mother’s letters assure him all is well. She even sends a recent photo of James and Sirius comically attempting to co-pilot a single broom in the Headquarter gardens.

Perhaps his parents are senseless enough to believe that Harry is as naïve as their long-dead toddler. Perhaps it is foolish of Harry to even care about his father as if their relationship is real, as if this entire make-believe facsimile of a family is anything like an organic one, the one they could have had, but didn’t, and which they now hopelessly try to construct out of hope, desire, and fear.

“No,” Harry whispers, lip trembling. He knocks his head against his pillow, tries to drown out the poison of this invasive rambling.

These are not his thoughts. These are not even his _words_.

They belong to the voiceless rant, the hollow drone that brought him here. He resists it with distraction: a three-foot-long essay for Slughorn, fifty pages of _Fundamentals of Defense Theory_ , a revisit of the sappy draft he’s written and unwritten with long, inky scratches for his dad. He grunts, rips the parchment, and burns it to ash; James would only laugh at his ineloquent attempts at comfort, and Harry has no use for these things.

It is better to detach, and piece by piece, minute by minute, he does. Numbness isn’t pleasant but its painless. It allows him to clear his head, to think things through. It allows him to sleep a full eight hour without the aid of medicine, because the deeper the foreign soul seeps into his marrow, the further he may dwell from himself.

 

 -

 

His limited sleep does not leave him in the best mood for a party, that much he can admit. He writes to Tom in the diary, rejecting his altogether _tempting_ offer to spend ten hours in the library ( _‘Seriously? You think grades matter at this point, Tom?’_ ). Ron’s innocent boyishness summons Harry’s first smile of the day, at which point the sun has set, and Ginny’s assembled party crew is anxiously waiting their turn at the Cloak.

“Maybe there’ll finally be reason to smile around here,” Ron says as he pulls open a small paper bag. “Fred and George used one of their rogue house-elves to smuggle these in.”

“What is it?”

Ron pops one in his mouth. “Flitterbloom Bites. Sort of make the world a bit, y’know. Wishy washy.”

“Legal, are they?” Harry asks skeptically.

“Strictly speaking, no,” Ron replies. “Half of what Boot’s bringing in could earn you a nasty fine. I tell you, Ravenclaws act like swots, but they’re the most drugged lot at Hogwarts—well, not counting Hufflepuffs and their fluxweed…”

“This really the best idea?” Harry asks sharply, smiling in a poor attempt to mask his frustration. “I’m all for a bit of strategic rule-breaking and all, but drugs? Really?”

Ron shrugs. “Too late to police them now, I reckon.”

Somehow, Harry fears this will be a long, long night indeed.

 

*          *          *

 

When the Gryffindors uncloak into visibility holding their handspun decorations, Tom is not quite shocked. No, shock would require respect for their intellectual faculties.

“We’re idiots,” says Weasley.

Discreetly, Tom pats Harry’s back, and whispers, “You didn’t think to tell them?”

The Room of Requirement, at Tom’s request, transformed into a ballroom. Bright neon lights slant over a hardwood floor, illuminating vibrant speckles of glitter that shimmer and glisten. On the stage, there are an array of instruments, wizarding and Muggle alike, which play, in the background, a soft jazzy score. The seated section is made up of round tables. In their centers, delicate tulips of four distinct shades: scarlet, yellow, blue, and green. On the far right, past the dance floor, there are even curtained loos and foldable iron cots.

“What should we do with these, then?” Seamus Finnegan questions with a wry smile, holding up a box of tinsel.

“Nursing station could use a facelift,” Dean Thomas suggests, laughing.

To Tom’s left, they run off with a handful of Hufflepuffs on their trail. To his right, Granger leaves through the door, off to sneak in more guests with the Cloak, stalking the corridor in the guise of fulfilling Prefect duties. They trickle in, in turns: each member of the resistance who is at least fourteen, most following the theme to wear Muggle attire. The attempts are of varying success. Tom nods appreciably in the direction of one seventh-year wearing a kilt over pinstriped pants, mutters something about ignorance to Harry. Boot’s brazen squad comes in not long after Granger finishes, bearing absinthe and baggies of Merlin-knows-what, unwittingly influencing the tables, where glass flutes and pewter gauntlets appear to accommodate his infamous custom brew.

“Is he serious?” Granger asks, scowling.

“He sure is,” little Weasley declares, twirling on her black Pinet boots. She presses her wand into her neck. “Everyone ready to party?”

The students shout back enthusiastically, in unison, “Yes!”

“Then let’s do this!”

She points to Dean Thomas, who flicks his wand at a tall gramophone on stage. As the record starts to spin, the instruments move on their own accord, filling the hall with a nondescript electric beat. The dancing commences, along with the drinking, the smoking, and the secluding of upperclassmen into shadows. Tom sits beside Harry, across from Granger, as Ron Weasley comes, weaving through the crowd with an armful of absinthe bottles, which he carefully levitates to the tabletop.

Harry is, unsurprisingly, none too thrilled. He leans his head into his palm, and complains, “I’m getting a headache and they’ve only just started the music.”

“Don’t be so sour, Harry,” Tom jokes. “The night’s still young, is it not?”

“Yeah, don’t be such a such a downer, Potter,” chimes the peppy voice of little Weasley as she pops in, snatching a bottle.

“Hey!” Weasley shouts, reclaiming the absinthe from Ginny’s grasp. “That’s not for you. You’re too young.”

She scoffs, snatching it back. “Sod off. I’m the one who put this party together in the first place, remember?”

“Fine,” he relents, crossing his arms. “But if mum sends me a howler, I’m telling Dean it was you who wrote that love poem to him when you were a first-year.”

Her eyes squint, scrutinizing Ron before she says, “Deal. Who wants to play Truth or Drink?”

“How do you play?” Tom inquires, uncapping a bottle. Silence accompanies three amused gawks. “What?”

Granger closes her mouth and shakes her head, smiling. “Nothing. I just didn’t take you for the drinking sort.”

The drinking sort? Alas. He is better understood by the snakes. Drinking to a Slytherin isn’t an expression of freedom, or whatever romantic nonsense the Gryffindors suppose; it is a political game, a means to uncover who has the highest tolerance, who is dependable under stress.

“Let’s do it then, Riddle,” Ron challenges, summoning a transparent shot glass. “You and me.”

“First the rules,” Tom reminds.

“Right,” he starts, tapping his wand against the rim of the glass, muttering an incantation. The music of some rock band Tom vaguely recalls begins to grow in volume as Ron speaks. “The rules are simple: Two people, one enchanted glass. You go back-and-forth asking questions, and you either have to answer honestly or take the shot. Three rounds to determine the winner.”

He tips the neck of his absinthe, filling the glass to the brim. “If you try to lie or Occlude the truth, the glass will vibrate and you’ll lose the round.”

“It’s not much of a game,” Tom says critically, eyeing the glass.

“Spooked by a bit of absinthe?”

“No, he’s not scared of absinthe,” says Harry, tracing his finger disinterestedly on the table. “Telling the truth, on the other hand…”

“Shall we?” Tom cuts in briskly, not quite quick enough to dispel the uncomfortably wide eyes that flutter between him and Harry, hungry for a bit of gossip.

“Raise the stakes!” giggles little Weasley. “You’re both tall. Three of these little glasses won’t do much to either of you. I’m, like, half Tom’s height and this is already my second bottle.”

Ron nods. “Two shots a go, then.”

“Three!” she shouts.

“Alright, three,” he agrees, scowling and taking wand to glass, tripling its size. “Put your finger on the glass and say, _iecoris dolor_.”

As Tom does this, chanting with Ron, he dully translates the incantation: ‘liver pain.’

Ron cracks his knuckles. “I’ll go first, then. Did you have a wank today?”

Granger gasps. “Honestly!”

“No,” Tom says softly, frowning. “Do Gryffindors usually ask such brash questions at social gatherings?”

“That counts as a question!” Ron asserts. “And no. Just when you’re around.”

“I see,” Tom responds benignly. “House rivalries and all.”

“Nah, mate. This is dead personal.”

“Excuse me?”

Weasley slowly shakes his head as he speaks. “If you really want to be trusted by Gryffindors, you’ve got to drop the perfect Prefect act. You think that anyone actually buys it?”

“We are all acting, Weasley. You wouldn’t behave the same way in front of Professor McGonagall as you would your own mother, would you?”

He snorts. “No, ‘course not. But that’s not the point. You’re really going to make me do this the hard way. If you had to snog one professor, who would you choose?”

Tom smirks. Lupin, obviously, but he’d rather not say, so he concedes the shot. The absinthe, poured straight down his throat, seers in an instant. He shudders and blinks. “This isn’t just alcohol.”

Ginny laughs. “Ha! Don’t you know? It’s Terry’s specialty—ninety percent ethanol, ten percent Cornish honeywater.”

“What?!” Granger screeches, seizing a bottle and taking a sniff. “That’s a hallucinogenic, Ginny!”

“Not a very strong one,” Tom points out dismissively, refilling the glass, his abdomen clenching with anticipation. “Now, let’s get to it, Ronald. Since you’re keen on the obscene, I’ll indulge you. Whose image did you, ah, _consider_ whilst wanking earlier?”

Ron grins, freckles wrinkling over thin lips. “Got me there, mate.” He downs his shot. “Which girl here has the best arse?”

Tom takes the shot, and with it, his eyes soften. “It’s a very cruel question to ask, I think. I’ll up the ante. You must bed one _male_ member of the D.A. Who do you choose?”

The shot is gone in seconds. Ron smacks his lips, rubs his tongue on his palm. “Boot is a bloody monster.”

“Is that so?”

Terry Boot, flanked by Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein, steps to the table, mysteriously wearing sunglasses though the room is dim-lit. “It appears our plan has worked, Ginny. Can’t believe we’ve convinced Riddle and Granger to imbibe.”

“This is squash!” Granger protests.

Ginny, chortling, swigs from her bottle and hops up, arms sloppily scooping Boot’s waist. “Quite the banger, yeah?”

“We even managed to get a few ‘Puffs on Looney’s level!” says Corner, gesturing at the dance floor.

Luna Lovegood, clothed in a turquoise bouffant, leads a group of giggling fourth-years in a strange dance. Her hands pat peculiarly in the air as she spins, head on her ear, the others tripping as they attempt to mimic her ridiculous movements.

“Way to go, Looney!” Goldstein calls, eliciting laughs from his friends.

Ginny scoffs and pushes at Terry Boot, stepping awkwardly on her heels. “Don’t laugh at her!”

“C’mon, Gin!” Boot laughs. “I know she’s your friend, but even you can’t deny she looks like a bloody nutter.”

“Looks like?” Corner says doubtfully. “The barmy bint went around the Common Room asking for blood samples just last week.”

“So what? She’s one of us,” Ginny declares, stomping her foot. “You shouldn’t disrespect your fellow soldier like that!”

“Soldier?” Boot asks in clarification, using his grip to straighten Ginny’s unsteady stance. “We’re not even at midnight and you’re already pissed.”

“I just don’t understand it,” she slurs. “Luna’s great! She’s clever, and radiant, and funny, and-and-and…”

“—and she’s absolutely off her rocker,” Goldstein says simply, rolling his eyes.

Ginny, glaring darkly, takes her bottle, sucks it dry, and tosses it to the ground, where it fragments with a loud shatter, glass shards splintering across the floor. “If being yourself and having fun makes you a nutter, then I’m one, too. Make room for me, Luna!”

Within seconds Ginny joins Lovegood beneath the flashing lights.

Corner laughs. “Sounds like she’s more interested in Looney than you, mate.”

“Shove off,” Boot retorts. “Anyway, I’ve chopped some Talking Toadstools, if any of you would like to join me. It’s free for you lot, but if anyone else asks, it’s five galleons a hit.”

“We’re doing fine over here, thanks,” Granger says shortly.

“You sure you couldn’t use it, Granger?”

Her glare sends them walking with shrugs and hushed mutterings.

“You two gonna wrap this thing up?” Harry asks abruptly, eyes decidedly narrowed.

“We can,” Tom tells him tolerantly. “It’s Weasley’s turn.”

“Oh? Oh, right then,” Weasley says, alcohol tearing at his words. “Not trying to be a knob or anything with this one, but since it’s just me and ‘Mione here, I’ve got to ask. Are you two dating? Like, _dating_ dating. Snogging and all that. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Harry’s seriously into you, mate. Like seriously into – ”

“I understand,” Tom says impatiently.

“Just tell them the truth,” Harry mutters, picking at his nails.

“As you wish. I hope you are considerate enough to keep this information private.”

“I knew it!” he exclaims, grinning. He lowers his voice to ask, “You reckon you’re gay then, yeah?”

“It’s my turn. But, yes. That’s generally how it works.”

“Sod the game,” Weasley declares happily, taking the final shot. “You’ve got it, Riddle. You’ve got my trust.”

“I’m delighted,” Tom says blankly.

“Honestly, Ron?” Granger questions. “Is that what your reservation was about? Competition?”

“No!” he denies, shaking his head. “I think is’more about the other stuff. Y’know, Riddle, blokes like you, when they’re straight, they tend to be a bit pompous, too sure of themselves, hitting on every girl, certain they’ll fancy them. I get you now, though. Just a bit of a perfectionist, yeah?”

“Ron!”

Tom laughs. “It’s fine, Herm – ”

“Excuse me!”

The unfamiliar voice, yelling over the music, precedes a harsh gust of wind, pushing Tom’s and Harry’s chairs in opposite directions. Tom reaches for his wand and looks over his shoulder just as an empty chair scoots in the middle. In a stride, a young girl in a low-cut halter, one of the newest recruits, slides into the chair. Her unusually large eyes glance over the table, lingering longest on Granger, who is granted a soft _hmm_.

“I’m Romilda Vane.” She rests her hand on Harry’s shoulder and leans into him. “Me and a few of my friends would like to know if you want to come sit with us.”

 

*          *          *

 

Harry tames the instinct to jerk himself away, his gaze so fixed on the hand on his person that he almost misses the attempt at flirting as the girl continues, “We think it’s so brave what you’ve done, hopping universes and all that! You simply must tell us all about it.”

Starting to feel a bit crowded, he gently pushes her hand off his shoulder, eyes reflexively glancing at Tom. “No, thank you. I prefer sitting with my friends.” 

Her type he knows all too well—it was the same bloody thing when he played football, and sure enough, as his gaze slides over towards the direction Vane came from, he finds a group of girls shooting curious glances towards them across the room, whispering to each other in anticipation. He has enough on his mind; he doesn’t need this on top of it.

“Oh, you don’t have to be shy,” Vane says, giggling girlishly. Harry awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, glancing around as if looking for a literal escape route. “We won’t bite!”

“I didn’t know Harry was so popular with the ladies,” Hermione remarks innocently, hiding her amused grin behind her glass. Harry shoots her a glare.

“Really?” Vane says in genuine surprise. “He’s been a hot topic for a while now, you know. You’re up there with Dean Thomas in terms of best-looking. Of course, I think you’re much more handsome. Do you work out?”

“Uh…” Harry shifts in his chair again, this time out of discomfort rather than restlessness as he tries thinking of a way to get rid of her. “Yeah?”

“That’s what I figured!” Vane’s hand presses on his bicep. “You’re very fit—”

“Oookay—look, Romilda, I’m sorry,” Harry cuts her off with a slightly uncomfortable laugh as he pushes her hand away a second time, managing to maintain a polite tone but knowing that not nipping this in the bud will just cause him more headache later. “I’m sure you and your friends are very nice and all, but I’m really not interested. Not even remotely. And if you could stop touching me, I’d appreciate it.”

Vane blinks, as if not having expected it, looking thoroughly disappointed as she pulls away. “Oh… well… alright. Sorry.” She gets up from the chair, looking somewhat like a kicked puppy, and in spite of knowing better, Harry still feels a pang of guilt. “Feel free to change your mind, though.”

The moment she leaves Harry lets out a tired sigh and slouches in his chair, Ron sliding his glass of absinthe his way. “Want a sip?”

“I don’t drink,” Harry mutters, eyes drifting over to the people dancing in the centre of the room.

But if this keeps up, he might actually have to start.

“Come, Harry,” Tom says, low tone somehow still cutting through the noise as he rises from his seat. “Let’s get you safe from your wet-knickered fan club.”

Finally. Harry follows Tom and his flushed-red face through the crowd, stepping over litter and the occasional half-naked crawler. The high-beat electronic song has reduced the drunk and tripping crowd to a sweaty mess of loud screaming, awkward tumbling, and bad dancing. Deep in the throng, by the stage, Ginny is resting with her head on Luna’s shoulder, Luna’s smile serene as her hand strokes the freckled cheek. He sees it for a second, before his attention is turned to Tom, who brings him to the furthest corner, where the nearest person is a dozing Hufflepuff girl.

Harry leans back against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them as Tom casts a spell around them. It lowers the sound by more than half, giving Harry’s ears a much-needed break from the commotion.

“I can feel it when you’re not alright, so I won’t bother with trite questions. I do wonder, however, if you ever will be alright.”

This is rather inconvenient. Harry almost forgot that their soul-bond allows Tom to pick up on his mood, and it’s not as if he’s a great actor who can just put on a mask and pretend. Still, the urge to lie is tempting. He doesn’t need to saddle Tom with his worries. He probably wouldn’t think much of them anyway. Harry can deal with this alone, but he shouldn’t outright lie Tom him either; that would be too obvious, what with Tom’s retracting touch, his increasingly pinched smirk.

_Bend it, a little._

“You don’t have to worry,” Harry replies, careful in trying to come across as neutral as possible. Not too much emotion, not too little. “I’ve just been feeling a bit off, but I’m sure it’ll pass soon enough. I’ve, er, never really enjoyed drinking games to begin with.”

And that last part is entirely the truth—whenever there’s alcohol involved, he tends to opt out. 

_Now, levity._

“Besides, I don’t want to get in the way of your fun.” He lets his lips relax in a grin. “You seemed to enjoy having a go at Ron, anyway.” Did he? Harry doesn’t really know, he wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but it’s just meant to be a tease anyhow. “Going for a dance, next?”

His conscience simmers accusatorily in the back of his mind.

And then something smothers it.

Tom stares blankly at Harry. “Harry, you can’t seriously believe I have any interest in being here without you. You’re the only person I really care to be around.”

He’s not buying it. His mind is already racing as it tries coming up with ways to deflect, to distract, to reassure—all insincere—when he realizes, faintly, what he’s doing is not… it’s not like him. It’s not him, he doesn’t try to scheme his way out of a situation like this, he doesn’t try and trick people by pulling down a veil over what he really feels. He doesn’t want to lie to Tom.

And yet here he is, doing exactly that.

What is happening to him?

“You can’t fool me, Harry,” Tom says quietly. “Save the offhanded duplicity for someone who knows you less than I.”

Part of him bristles with cold indignation—no, not part of him. Not really. It’s Tom’s arrogance, his pride, his hatred of being undermined and exposed bubbling up to the surface. What little control Harry had over himself is frayed, snapping thread by thread, and he can’t stop it.

Cold fingers curl around his hands and brown eyes come into focus, and yet Harry doesn’t quite feel it, doesn’t quite see it, as if there’s someone else crawled inside of him as Tom speaks. “What do I have to do to snap you out of this? If you want to talk about your father, then I’ll stay with you all night. If it’s about the party, then I’ll have it shut down. And if it’s about me,” Tom breathes deeply, jaw clenching, “then just bloody tell me what I’ve done wrong. I can’t stand to see you like this. I can’t stand to see you act…”

A bitter pang of ire, of scorn, burns in his throat, a voice hissing in his ear: _‘He doesn’t care about your father, doesn’t care about your fears, they’re all trivial to him,’_ Harry’s his lips twist into a mocking, cruel sneer. “Like you?”

It’s the most disturbing thing, to say something so unlike yourself and yet feeling like it’s completely natural to say at the same time. He has never felt this split before, part of him caught up in resentment, but a larger part of him flaring with panic at his own cold words, and suddenly he’s back in control, eyes coming back into focus.

“I…” He blinks, completely disoriented. “That’s not what I meant to say.” Taking a deep, shaky breath, Harry feels a pressing fear on his chest, realising belatedly how hard he’s squeezing Tom’s hands and slowly relaxing his grip. Is he starting to lose his mind? “I don’t—I don’t know where that came from.”

Harry almost can’t bear to look Tom in the eyes, continuing in a hoarse voice. “I think I need some rest, or… or a cold shower. I don’t feel like myself. It’s not – you didn’t do anything wrong, I just…”

_‘Am I really losing it?’_

He breathes in sharply, the cool stone against his back suddenly feeling ice cold and making him shiver, a need for comfort tugging at him as he inches forward, arms wrapping around Tom’s back, pressing against him in what should be a soothing embrace. But it’s no good; he can’t shake that sensation of being suffocated.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, fingers curling tightly into the back of Tom’s robes.

Tom shakes him off. “I understand. If you so wish, I’ll get the Cloak and walk you to your room.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, nodding. “Yeah, I want to go to sleep.”

“Very well.”

Without another word, Tom disappears into flashing lights and inebriated students. Harry, disenchanted by the night, leans against the wall and slowly slides down, hugging his knees to his chest. He’s being unfair to Tom. Tom made one mistake, a month ago, has paid the price for it, and Harry? All Harry can do is make mistake after mistake, acting cruel and rude and unpleasant to everyone around him. He blames Tom’s soul for his mood swings, but, how can he? Tom never performs this pout or sits, a recluse, acting wounded and bitter. This is Harry. Utterly and inescapably, Harry.

“Harry Potter?”

Harry startles, peering up. As if to test him, it is the girl from earlier. Her ringlet curls remind him of a girl in his old school, another unrequited crusher he struggled to avoid.

“Hi,” he responds. “It’s Romilda, right?”

She nods eagerly. “You remembered!”

He smiles through his cringe. “Sorry if I came off a bit rude earlier. It’s been a long day.”

“I didn’t take it personally,” she says, sitting by his side, this time respecting a bit of distance. “I just felt so nervous to talk with you. I know better now, though.”

“You weren’t so bad,” he responds unconvincingly.

She laughs, high and bold. “Don’t be silly. I was awful. Normally, I’m the cool one of my friends. But you’re… well, you’re you!” She leans in, eyes blown wide and serious. “Can I ask you a personal question? Are you dating Tom Riddle?”

Harry shakes his head. “Umm, no?”

“Ha!” she bursts. “Awkward question! Sorry for asking. It’s just, I saw you two together just now. Figured it’d be weird for me to flirt if that were the case. I’ve pretty much won a bet with my friends right now. I told them there wasn’t a chance you were with him; you two really don’t go well together.”

“What makes you say?” Harry asks, a bit offended; a normal person would recognize the hurt in his voice but Romilda, unusually thick, smiles broadly.

“Well, I suppose he’s cute, but he’s a smidge creepy. Dunno what it is. You’re loads more fun. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got beautiful eyes.”

“He’s my best mate, you know,” Harry says stiffly.

And fortunately, he’s returning to save him, albeit with a severe look, no Cloak in hand.

“Am I interrupting something?” Tom asks dryly.

Vane giggles, blushing. “Don’t keep him for too long.”

Tom, visibly unimpressed, extends his hand to Harry, assisting him to his feet. When he stands, however, Tom continues handholding, tucking his hand beneath Harry’s thumb. His dark eyes glare pointedly at Vane, who becomes a shrinking girl. (Likely, she finds it _creepy._ ) Slowly, he lets go and bids Vane a polite farewell, next laying his arm around Harry’s shoulder and walking him further from sight.

“Bad news. We’re about to put the party on nightlong lockdown. Three Ravenclaw girls wandered starkers into the corridor. Filch found them and roped the toad into an investigation. Apparently, the girls aren’t speaking up, but we can’t risk further exposure. Granger and I decided the best strategy is to keep everyone contained until morning. I’ve agreed to stand guard all night in exchange for a favor from Granger.”

“Yeah?”

“She’ll sneak you into Gryffindor while I look after the overgrown children. I don’t doubt your pretty little fangirl is plotting your molestation as we speak.”

Harry breaks from Tom’s lean, turning to stand in front of him. “No, Tom. I won’t let you do this alone. I’ll stay up with you.” He dares to step in close, though sparing Tom the discomfort of public touch. “I’m sorry for acting like I have. It’s an adjustment period. I’ll get over it.”

“Get some rest, Harry,” Tom insists. “Exhaustion won’t make things easier on you.”

“I want to be useful,” Harry says softly. “Please?”

Tom nods briefly, unexpressive. “Then brace yourself for a long night as we are about to become the two most unpopular people in this room.”

Harry’s lips hint at a smile. “Anything to defeat Grindelwald, right?”

“Something like that,” Tom agrees, readying his wand and signaling something to the distant, glowering Hermione Granger.

And just like that, the party is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man am I sleepy. Stayed up all night with this one. It took me longer than expected, which I pretty much always say, but this time, at least, I can also say it's pretty long--something like 7.2k words. I hope the shenanigans were enjoyed. I got a bit indulgent, but hey. This is fanfiction. Can't take it too seriously, can I?
> 
> \- Amelinda


	5. A Gift from Romilda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter: A party was held in the Room of Requirement, during which the following happened: Ron built trust with Tom through a drinking game; Harry met a girl called Romilda Vane; Ginny and Luna established a relationship; and three Ravenclaw girls were caught streaking by Filch.

_Pretty. Perfect. Pink._

Dolores Umbridge repeats this mantra, silently, as she prunes dying leaves off her potted hydrangeas. She loves the sound of a good _snip_ , the flicker of a fallen petal. To these flowers, she is a god: their creator, their master, and, if she wants to, she can tear them to shreds, piece by little, pink piece.

She giggles. “But what would be the fun in that, Mrs. Sunshine?”

Mrs. Sunshine, a rainbow coated kitten, mews from a decorative plate. It is one of many cats hanging in queue on the wall, and it is, in fact, her favorite piece, with its little button nose and shimmering whiskers.

Her office, here, is not quite as outfitted as hers at the Ministry, but it is an improvement over its previous dreary, cobwebbed state. Such a shame their budget is so meager. The dismal bleakness of Hogwarts was never to her liking, not as a student, and not now, as their soon to be Headmaster.

_Headmaster Umbridge._

What a title! She shears a flaccid, browning leaf, and giggles again.

Of course, she shouldn’t get too ahead of herself, not quite yet. There is still time to be spared before, ahem, _snip_.

“I have the girls, High Inquisitor,” says the Malfoy boy, stepping in through a gap in the door. “Would you like to see them?”

“Thank you, Draco. You may have redeemed yourself yet.”

He nods with a faint blush, then disappears again into the corridor.

“I’m waiting,” she calls after a hesitant pause of scuttling feet.

Three Ravenclaws step in, one at a time, keeping their eyes to the floor, in shame.

“You should feel a great embarrassment, girls. What you have done is grounds for expulsion.”

The tallest of them looks up. “We’re sorry, High Inquisitor, we were simply–”

Dolores clears her throat. “I was not yet finished.”

Each girl straightens her gaze.

“Now, as I was saying. At my command, I could have the three of you sent down from Hogwarts, never to return. Would that be agreeable with your parents?”

“Only Dumbledore has the power to–”

Dolores smiles keenly. “Dumbledore is at the whim of the Ministry, and Dumbledore, I believe, would not take kindly to three little girls inviting unfavorable acts of promiscuity. Imagine if a boy less gallant than Mr. Malfoy had come across you three. There could have been an incident. Indeed, given the, _ahem_ , lewd and open nature of your act, I cannot help but feel such an event was anticipated.”

“Please, High Inquisitor,” says another girl, her lip quivering, her hands nervously fiddling with the tail of her plait. “We didn’t do any harm.”

“Didn’t do any harm?” Dolores repeats with an indignant _hmph_. “I fear you underestimate the severity of your offense. If you were of age, I could see to your registration with the Ministry for sexually heinous offenses.”

“Please, High Inquisitor, we–”

“However,” Dolores says abruptly, “I see no reason to raise this issue to the Headmaster if, in restitution, you are willing to exchange information about the night’s occasion _._ ”

Three backs stiffen. Dolores leans in.

“You see, according to my Inquisitorial Squad, it was rumored at breakfast this morning that several students were not found returning to their dormitories until curfew had lifted. It is curious, is it not?”

“Look,” says the tall one, claiming a bold stance, “I’m willing to make a deal with you. I’ll tell you what you want to know on the condition that my friends are protected.”

“No!”

“Amina, don’t do this…”

Dolores purses her lips, in contemplation. It is not a bargain, no, certainly not. But it could prove to be worth it, if her suspicion is proven correct; it is not much of a gamble, anyhow, not when these trifling little girls mean so very little in the grand scheme.

“I will grant it.”

The girl, Amina, sighs heavily as she steps forward. “It was my party. I’m responsible. If you’re going to punish anyone, it should be me.”

“Your party,” Dolores states, skeptical. “Where was it held?”

“An abandoned classroom, fourth floor.”

“And how many people were in attendance?”

“I can’t recall. I was too drunk.”

Dolores turns her attention to the other two, both nearing tears, decisively less confident than their friend.

“Am I to assume you three were _all_ too drunk to recall?”

Their silence causes Dolores great annoyance.

“Very well. As I have promised, I will not raise this issue with the Headmaster.”

She pulls at the coral knob of her desk drawer, retrieving from it a set of black-feathered quills.

“You see, I am not fond of expulsion. Proper punishment is far better assurance of reform, though Hogwarts has, regrettably, neglected the importance of such measures for far too long. Fortunately, I think you’ll find that the era of lenience is quickly coming to an end.”

“Quills?” says Amina. “Are we meant to do lines, then?”

“Quite correct.”

“How many?”

Dolores stretches her lips into a great smile.

“However many it takes.”

 

*          *          *

 

Party this, party that. Hermione can’t go anywhere without someone competing for best story of the night. The Common Room was safe for a time, about a solid thirty-minute span. Now, thanks to the sixth-year boys, it’s louder than ever. She traces the same line in her book for the fifteenth time: _Thigmotropism, or, the turning or bending_ _of a plant or other organism in response to a touch stimulus, is of relevance to…_

“It was mental, I’m telling ya,” says Seamus boldly, elbows on his knees, hands eagerly gesturing. “Boot was talking pure shite to Lovegood, said something like, ‘ _Oi, Loony, did you know there’s a Snorkle Crimpump over there’—_ just trying to make a fool of her and whatnot. The thing is, Lovegood was buying it! She was really buying it, trying to figure out where it was. Of course, by that point, Ginny was totally langers, and she went on with Luna, asking around for the damn thing. Couldn’t believe me eyes.”

Hermione slaps her hands onto her book. “It wasn’t funny, Seamus. Boot said some really nasty things about Luna and Ginny.”

“What? About them being a couple of lezzers?”

Dean punches his arm. “Don’t be a prick about it, mate.”

“Oh, come off it,” Seamus says with rolling eyes. “I got nothing against gay people. Friends with you, aren’t I?”

Dean scowls.

“He shouldn’t be allowed back,” Harry says sharply, unamused.

Ron cracks his knuckles. “He’s lucky Riddle talked me out of doing his bloody head in.”

“And just what would that have solved, Ronald?” 

“Could have shut him up sooner,” Harry says in a spiteful voice.

“Yeah, Mione. I know you’re against violence and all, but that was my bloody sister he was talking about, wasn’t it?”

“What he said was vile,” Hermione agrees. “But he was also very inebriated. I don’t think he really had control of his words. If you talked with him today, he’d probably be mortified.”

“Trust me,” Harry assures, “he will be spoken to.”

“It should be Riddle who does it,” Neville says absently, digging two fingers into a seedling packet. “You lot are too frazzled. People like Boot need to be handled gently, you know what I mean?”

Ron scoffs. “Oh, I’ll handle him gently all right…”

Time to diffuse.

“Harry," starts Hermione, "I just had a thought. I don’t think anybody’s told Tom about the three Ravenclaw girls, unless you have.”

Harry’s mouth tightens. “Haven’t seen him.”

This earns him a suspicious pause.

“What?” he exclaims. “Am I supposed to know where he is at all times?”

“No, no,” Hermione says, attempting to mollify his uneven temper.

“Well, good. Because I don’t know.”

Dean laughs nervously. “Harry, mate, is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

The defensive pitch, the phony air of indifference—Hermione would like to help, she would, but she doesn’t exactly have time for whatever silly lover’s quarrel is going on here.

“I’m going to see if I can find him.”

“Tell him I said hello,” jokes Seamus.

Hermione smiles. “It’s a lot to remember but I’ll try.”

She exits through the portrait with thoughts of Harry. Many people underestimate Hermione, assuming she is nothing more than rote memory and book smarts, but she has another skill, an important one: observation. It could be called a hobby, really. She likes to sit in the wingback chair by the fire, where she has the best view of Gryffindor. Nearly every morning since break, Harry has left at dawn with his trainers and a frown, and returned an hour later, drenched in sweat and drained of emotion.

Something has changed in him. It could be Tom. It could be his father’s trial. It could be the weight of it all combined. Who is she to say? All she knows is that the D.A. must stay together, even if his mental health is fraying.

Although it seems Harry's not the only one with problems.

Hunched, muttering, and scribbling madly. This is how Hermione finds Tom, his face obscured by stacks of books at the desk in the furthest corner of the library. The closer she gets, the better she can see the grimace, the dark stains beneath his eyes.

In her earlier years, she would have bridled at the sight, first consumed by jealousy, and next overwhelmed by a compulsion to work harder, longer. She was innocent then. Now her feelings are more complex, further bent toward admiration than envy, though not entirely without traces of spite. He acts humble, but is he really? Or does he get some sort of sick thrill out of besting her?

Such pettiness makes her frown at herself.

“Tom?”

His attention snaps to her. Out of politeness (or maybe genuine friendliness), he unstiffens, smiles.

“Hello, Hermione.”

“You haven’t been here all day, have you?”

“I got caught up,” he says simply, crumpling the over-inked parchment before him.

“Well, we have a small situation on our hands. Care to join me for a walk?”

He nods, and together, they tidy his space, Hermione charming off spilt ink as Tom stuffs three texts into his bag: _Arithmantic Ritual_ , _Prinzipien der Seelenmagie_ , something about numerology in Old Nordic script.

“Soul magic?”

Tom shrugs. “There isn’t much to study for these days.”

Fair enough.

Madam Pince eyes them irritably as they slip out the front door. “Do try to be quieter next time!”

If it were Ron by Hermione’s side, her ears would be met with a snide comeback, some satisfying murmur of complaint she wouldn’t normally voice herself. In Ron’s absence, however, she feels bolder, as if she should compensate. She inclines her neck, ready to make a nasty remark about the foul, old bird. Then she realizes Tom is no longer beside her.

He is standing before the librarian.

“Our apologies, Madam Pince. We meant you no disrespect.”

Hermione’s mouth drops; she really is a bad person, isn’t she?

“So,” he begins, taking step by her side, “I’m guessing the situation has something to do with last night.”

“Yes,” she whispers, scoping the hall over her shoulder for sign of Umbridge’s goons. “During breakfast, Malfoy escorted those third-years to Umbridge, and no one’s heard from them since.”

“Do you think she can expel students without Dumbledore’s permission?”

“With permission from the Ministry, yes”

“I see.” Tom stops in his tracks, looking forward blankly, as if snagged by a new thought. There is a tense stretch of quiet between them.

“Hermione.”

Her heart skips; she has never heard her name spoken with such purpose. Slowly, she lifts her head to meet his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Have you submitted your registration papers?”

“Of course, Tom.”

“And do you intend to go?”

She blinks. Is this his sleep deprivation, or do his question have an aim?

“My mother’s family has offered me a room in Lagos, but I’m not sure. I don’t believe I can leave without a fight. It would feel wrong.”

His gaze leaves her, lifting to the canvass beside them. It is a scene from ancient Greece—men chatting in togas on a dirt trial, a Corinthian temple on the horizon behind them.

“I’ve never left Britain. Funny, isn’t it? I can read in sixteen languages, even converse in a handful of them, and yet, I only know this; us.”

There is uncommon intimacy in his tone. She feels like a voyeur.

He shakes his head and sighs. “Tell me when you’ve made your decision, Hermione. I need to begin strategizing. Soon.”

“No, I’ve made my choice.” Hermione slides her hand out of an elastic and tugs tight coils into a bunch. “Harry and Ron will meet me in the Common Room an hour before dinner. That gives us two hours alone.”

“And the girls? The little Ravenclaws?”

Hermione hardens her lips, her eyes, her heart.

“They’ll either turn up or they won’t. Now let’s get to work.”

 

*          *          *

_Mr. Snape:_

_I have abstained from the Dark Arts since your last correspondence, where you asked me why I, a Muggle-raised, was placed into Slytherin._

_I am not the Hat. I cannot speak on its behalf. I assume it sensed in me, what it has sensed in many others: determination, versatility, ambition._

_There is no need to expound further. I do not require intervention, therapy, or acquaintanceship. I am not lonely, troubled, or otherwise compromised._

_Regards,_

_Riddle_

 

*          *          *

 

“It is time now for us to be grateful. Last week, our comrades were offered the choice to expose us, and yet, they did not. They sacrificed their own well-being for the good of the cause. Unfortunately, Cho has informed me that the three girls chose to withdraw from Hogwarts earlier this day.”

The Room breaks out in gasps, murmurs. Tom cues their silence with an upraised hand.

“It is unfortunate, yes, but we should not let it discourage our efforts. Many have voiced regret over the party. I myself wondered if such an event was worth the risk. However, I have come to the conclusion that such gatherings are as vital as our trainings. If we cannot laugh, bond, and grow together, then how are we to know the value of what we’re fighting for? In divisive times, one prejudice can breathe life into others. What starts as blood intolerance will mutate and expand. Our only option is to resist the turning tides and beat on regardless, being true to ourselves and true to one another.”

No one claps or speaks. However beautiful Tom’s words are, there is a haunt in the room, a collective mourning.

“You are dismissed. Please enjoy the festivities tomorrow.”

The students gather in their assigned groups and wait for Hermione to escort them with the Cloak. The first moment is dim, reticent. Then trickles of laughter begin to brighten the gloom, little by little, with Ginny at the helm of some joke that's probably at Terry Boot’s expense, like most of her recent gags. Her hand around Luna's is a small comfort to Harry. In another world, another time, he could see himself loving Ginny, though not if it meant separating her from Luna. There is a purity between them that he both admires and craves.

“Harry.”

Harry perks and turns, finding the brown eyes that peer down at him. “Hey. You sounded really good. Come up with that all by yourself?”

“Why the tone of surprise?”

“You could never surprise me, Tom.”

Tom hums. “Try telling me that again tomorrow, after the feast.”

“What? You mean after the Valentino thing?”

“It’s called _Valentine’s Day_ , Harry. And believe me, it’s more interesting than it sounds.”

Harry never said it wasn't interesting. In his old universe, all holidays were related to a religious cause: Christ’s birth, Christ’s death, Christ’s resurrection. Of all the new events he’s had to learn about, this one is the most peculiar, both in theory and in practice.

At breakfast, Umbridge reiterates the policy about public displays of affection, but even she seems happy somehow—pink is the color of the day, after all. Harry spots it on the stuffed pygmies and the pillow hearts and all the pink ties bouncing around ponytails.

Then there’s the bloody cards.

As the owls deliver the routine chaos he has grown accustomed to, there is an odd stirring outside the Great Hall, leaving Harry like a starry eyed first-year while the others laugh and stare.

“You’ll get a kick out of this,” Tom says slyly.

“A kick out of wh… _oh my god_.”

They flutter in by the hundreds: heart-shaped cards with functional white wings. As soon as they fly over tables, they begin to drop like dead flies, landing in front of recipients throughout the Houses.

Harry stares in disbelief as nearly a dozen cards fall before Tom.

“People wrote those to you?”

“If you consider eleven-year-old girls to be people, then yes. Watch your porridge, Universe Hopper. Yours will be here any moment.”

“What?”

Harry winces as the letters fall, first swirling in a mad barrage, and then neatly stacking in front of him into a pile that reaches his chin.

“Merlin, Harry,” Ron says. “That’s the most I’ve ever seen. You could have your own fan club.”

Ginny snorts. “That’s even more than Diggory got, and that bloke had to fight a bloody dragon for it. Hey, look Ron! You’ve got one, too.”

“Who? Me?”

He appears baffled as the card floats down before him.

“Don’t get too excited, it’s probably from Mum.”

Ron shoots Ginny a rude hand gesture before skinning open the seal. “ _You have the hair of a lion and the heart of a Fire Crab. Love, Your Secret Admirer._ ” He flushes bright red. “Is that a compliment?”

“Better than this,” chimes in Dean, reading from one of his own, “ _You are chocolate: sweet, dark, and rich. I watch you from afar and dream of your taste._ ”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Hermione exclaims.

Harry eyes his pile suspiciously. “If I choose not to open any of these, they won’t scream at me, will they?”

“Nah, mate,” answers Ron. “But you should at least give one a go. It’s all in good fun.”

“Alright,” Harry concedes; if he complies now, he won’t get hounded about it later, right? “Let’s see, this one says… _Your bravery will be admired for generations. Come meet me at the Astronomy Tower at seven. I am only 12 but I am old for my age_.”

“She makes a compelling argument,” Tom says as he sips from his gauntlet.

“That’s golden!” Ron laughs. “Come on, mate. Another one.”

“No.” Harry sweeps the cards into his knapsack. “That’s enough.”

“You’re no fun,” teases Ginny. “What about Riddle? He hasn’t read any of his.”

Tom shakes his head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Come on, Riddle!” urges Dean.

Ron nods wisely. “Yeah, Riddle, you’ve got plenty, share the love. _Riddle, Riddle, Riddle_.”

Ginny, Dean, and Seamus chant in unison with Ron, banging their fists on the table in emphasis. Tom ignores them for as long as he can, until it attracts the attention of others, who look over with annoyed expressions for the source of the commotion.

“Yes, yes, fine,” Tom mutters. He takes one from the top and skims its contents. “It’s from a Slytherin.”

“Yeah, and?” asks Ron impatiently.

“ _You are the fittest boy at Hogwarts, I don’t even care that you’re Muggle-born._ ”

Ginny drums her fingers on the tabletop. “Yikes.”

“One last year called me a Mudblood. Shall I go on reading?”

Dean scoffs. “Merlin, Riddle. How do you stand living with them?”

“It isn’t purely driven by hatred. Most simply don’t know what they’re saying, especially the younger ones.”

“Right,” says Harry. “Their ignorance; our deaths.”

 

-

 

When they return to the Great Hall for dinner, it is decorated in theme, much to Harry’s distaste. The deep pink flowers and cloth streamers, hung around the walls, remind him all too much of Umbridge, who sits with a smug grin at the table, perfecting the pink bow atop her head.

“I still don’t quite understand what the point of the day is. It’s not about love, is it?”

“Theoretically, it is,” Tom says slowly, smirking.

“LOOK! Someone’s handed Macmillan a Howler!”

Harry plugs his ears at once, to no avail.

 

_‘YOU FILTHY, MANGY CHEATER!_

_HOW DARE YOU BETRAY ME,_

_ERNIE MACMILLAN!_

_I HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR_

_TIME WITH THAT DOG!’_

 

“Bloody scoundrel, Macmillan!” shouts Seamus toward the Hufflepuffs, laughing so hard, his eyes stream with tears.

“I think it’s less about love and more about courtship,” says Hermione thoughtfully. “I mean, if you love someone, you don’t need to surround yourself with pink frills to show it.”

“No. I don’t much like the frills in here,” Harry mutters.

Tom wipes his mouth and lays his serviette in a careful triangle. “Nor do I. I think I’ll head to the library.”

His eyes linger tellingly on Harry.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I’ll come with. See you guys around later?"

Ron waves him off. "Sure thing, mate."

Beyond the Great Hall, they pass through the tower, into the courtyard, where the winds of the blacking night nip against Harry’s skin.

“So, what’s the big surprise?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now, would it?” He leans in and lowers his voice to the faintest of whispers. “I’m taking you somewhere. You go grab your Cloak in the Tower. I’ll go ensure the passage is safe and then come back here to fetch you.”

Harry’s stomach burns in a pleasant blend of affection and adrenalin. “Seriously?”

Smirking, Tom grips the underside of Harry's jaw, pressing in the bulbs of his fingers. 

“Yes. Now run along. I’ll be back soon.”

As Tom retracts his touch, Harry's lips move of their own accord into a grin, a broad one.

Sod the risk of expulsion. This could be the kick start he needs to shake himself out.

Everyone suspects him of weakness. He can sense it in their worried glares and their endless placations. He tries to fight it, but it’s difficult to keep up appearances when each night, he's thrown back into consciousness—sometimes screaming and thrashing, sometimes shaking violently in silence. The Silencing Ward around his bed is the only reason his dorm-mates don’t notice the worst of his outbursts. Instead they see the aftermath.

Exhausted as he is, he cannot help but resign to the hissing voice in the back of his head, that sibilant drone that coaxes him into subdued cognizance.

There is a single, recurring terror among the many: the one where he is back on that fateful Friday night after his team’s victory, walking home alone, but this time there is no Zeke.

_“Harry!”_

_He hears the soft footsteps that he missed before, but he’s not concerned, because it’s only Tom calling out to him, someone who loves him and would never hurt him._

_When he stops and turns around, there’s a glimmer of silver, and then a knife, sticking out of his chest. Tom’s hand is clenched tightly around his shoulder, and somehow Harry is still standing, staring down in horror at the blade buried into his heart, hands grasping onto Tom’s robes who gazes at him with a loving smile, pulling the knife out before thrusting it in again, and again, and again, and Harry is choking on his own blood, Tom is killing him, he’s dying…_

Tonight, it ends. Tonight, he’ll tell Tom everything he’s seen, everything he’s felt. He wants everything to go back the way it was before. He wants to be able to look at Tom without that horrid nightmare clinging to the back of his eyelids, wants to embrace him without it feeling so desperate, wants to be around him without feeling like he’s suffocating.

He approaches the Fat Lady with a newfound reserve of certainty.

He can do this. He can change. He can—

“Harry Potter?”

Oh shite.

Romilda Vane. She spots him with a big smile, holding a pink box in her hands as she approaches.

“Hello,” Harry replies uncertainly, shifting awkwardly on his feet. He hasn’t seen her since the party, but he’s spotted her plenty of times afterwards, sneaking glances at him in the corridors or the Room. Clearly, she hasn’t given up. “Something you wanted, Romilda?”

A slight flush spreads over her cheeks. “Well, um, I just wanted to give you this,” she says, holding the box out to him. “For Valentine’s.”

Harry nearly winces. “I’m really sorry,” he says gently, “but I can’t accept that.”

“Please?” she pleads, having expected his rejection. “I know you said you weren’t interested but I just wanted to do something nice for you. And you don’t have a girlfriend, right?”

“Romilda—”

“I made them myself!” the girl insists, big brown eyes begging as she opens the box, revealing small chocolate treats, appearing clumsy enough to be made by hand. “Won’t you at least try one?”

Harry sighs, brushing a hand through his hair. He’s always hated rejecting people, and there can’t be any harm in just having one if that means she’ll be on her way again. “Just one,” he emphasises, before reaching into the box and picking out one that looks vaguely like a bonbon.

Popping it into his mouth, the first taste he gets is sugar. A lot of it.

“Well?” Vane says eagerly.

“It tastes nice,” Harry offers, the lie flowing from his tongue easily, and trying not to flinch at the extreme sweetness of it. “Thank you.”

“Sure you won’t have the rest?”

“Uh…”

“It was my mum’s recipe, you know,” Vane starts, rambling on about how she put it all together as Harry tries to look like he’s paying attention, but this is just starting to get painful.

And, oddly, warm.

His brows furrow slightly, and he wonders if he’s starting to come on with a fever—but it’s not in his head, it’s an odd, unnatural warmth in his chest. The more Vane talks, the more her average feminine voice starts to flow through his ears like a melody. Her face transforms into an indelible point of focus that glues his eyes to her.

This is wrong.

Harry shakes his head, trying to snap himself out of it. He didn’t find her particularly attractive before. She’s a child, nothing more than a young girl with a silly crush on him, and yet there’s something inside him that wasn’t there before gravitating towards her.

_This is wrong._

Did she… she couldn’t have… she wouldn’t...

“Romilda,” Harry rasps, his hands starting to shake. “What did you… what did you put in those chocolates?”

“Nothing!” she says innocently, but her eyes watch him with that same eagerness, anticipation. “Is it working?”

Is it working?

_Is it working?_

Pressure swells in his chest, growing, pulsing, throbbing violently into a rage that blinks his vision into red, and then black: complete and utter black.

Distantly, he hears a gasp, a thump of something dropping to the floor, and then a low hiss.

“What’s the matter, love?”

_She drugged you._

“I thought this was what you wanted?”

_She drugged you._

“Not enjoying my hands on you now, are you?”

_She drugged you._

“Such a shame. Tell me, what would you like me to do with your corpse when I’m done with you?”

_She drugged you._

Then there is a familiar voice, calling to him, saying his name.

_Kill her._

He cinches his fingers tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, it is almost hard to repeat because every author makes the same comment, but that's because it's true--feedback is the engine of a fic, and I'm grateful for every comment, kudos, bookmark, etc. ❤
> 
> Now that the story has just taken what I consider to be its darkest turn, I would like to clarify: this is _not_ a dark!Harry fic; this is a fic about Tomarry with dark elements.


	6. The Break

Rigid and proud, Gregory the Smarmy stands atop his granite plinth, coveting a decanter in his right paw. Tom has the Weasley twins to thank for this passage. It was on their shadow, lurking, that Tom discovered the secret to their ingredient trade. Through the hatch and to the ridgeline, the sneaky bastards went, growing stolen seeds in their little mountain garden. The two thought themselves too clever to be caught. Fortunately for Tom, they were not clever, and neither ever seemed to notice his regular theft.  

No time now for reminiscence, however.

He leaves the empty alcove with vigilance. There are no passers of interest, no Inquisitorial morons, only snoggers, hiding off in a distant nook. He dismisses them with pointed cough.

The girl gasps and pushes her partner. “Oh! We were just—”

“Find a classroom,” Tom suggests without looking back.

Being Prefect has its perks, despite his recent neglect of its responsibilities. How could he spare an open moment? His Harry is a time suck, a vacuum of need. Hungry, but for what? Tom knows less with each passing day what it is Harry desires. It was never wealth and never power. If anything, it was powerlessness. The way he pined for Tom, seeking him for knowledge, affection, sensuality—he treated these wants like needs, and sought them from no one else. It was fine when it began. Tom was in control.

But the deeper Tom has drilled, the more unstable his soul has become, like a mine, verging collapse. He cannot trace his motivations to a clear, definitive aim, as he once could, when things were green. Harry is no longer an enigma; his dots have been connected. He is a simple boy, a boring boy, a Muggle whose soul was snatched and merged, against his will.

Against Tom’s will.

He feels it stronger by the day, this bristling beneath the skin. It is Harry’s warmth, and his volatility, and his neediness. The varied sensations can be crippling when Tom is alone, feeling as if his seams are coming undone, as if he’s being overstretched and stuffed with a life that doesn’t belong inside him.

He doesn’t want this. He never asked for it, never deserved it. What was that phrase, that Muggle saying he encountered on his handheld games?

 _Restore to factory settings_.

This is what he wants. He tried to play nice, let Harry come back of his own free will, but, with certain attitude _adjustment_ spells so simple at the flick of his wand, Tom cannot justify further postponement. All he needs is privacy and gullibility, and how better to begin again than in a romantic gesture, at the spot where it all started?

The wordless voice inside Tom begs him to reconsider.

Harry won’t like it. Harry won’t forgive you.

Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry.

Tom swats the name like a fly, and rounds the corner, turning toward the Gryffindor Tower. Harry has no say in this. Not anymore. He doesn’t know his own best interest. He will be happier this way.

Within view of the distant portrait entrance, Tom melts his smile into place, preparing for his great performance. But as he gets closer, he must stop, scowl.

“Harry?”

That is him, isn’t it? On the floor? Yes, Tom hears his voice.

“Such a shame. Tell me, what would you like me to do with your corpse when I’m done with you?”

“HARRY!”

A sprint leads Tom to the unlikeliest of sights: Harry straddling the little girl from the party, his hands wrenched around her throat.

“Harry, get off her!”

Tom embraces Harry from behind, and _pulls_ , lifting his feet from the ground and releasing Vane. She attempts to scream, or maybe breathe, but either way, it is an awful noise, a hoarse gurgling and gasping through white lips. Tom wrangles Harry to his feet and holds his cheeks within his palms.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

Harry’s blown pupils contract as he shudders, blinking. Then he growls and screams, and rips his head out of Tom’s hands so harshly that he falls back onto the ground, hyperventilating.

“I d-d-didn’t mean to!” stutters Vane. Her fingertips dance over the bluing column of her neck. “I just, just, just…”

“You just _what_?” Tom asks sharply.

“I only put a few drops!”

She covers her face and sobs. Worthless.

“Harry?” Tom asks gently, lowering to a knee. “Harry, what did she do?”

Breathing heavily with his entire body quivering, Harry’s gaze falls on a red box, one tied with a bow. “The chocolates…love…she…”

Tom’s body runs cool with chills. _Only a few drops_.

“Hey!” shouts a voice from behind. “What is going on here?”

Angelina Johnson holds her arms open in bemusement.

“Take her to McGonagall,” Tom spits. “She laced these chocolates with Amortentia.”

“Amortentia? Romilda! You know it’s forbidden!”

Vane’s crying grows louder, and Tom must take a deep breath, count, suffocate the urge to snap her into halves. “I’ll escort Harry to the infirmary.”

“Merlin! Did you choke her out, Riddle?! I don’t care what she did, you can’t just—”

Vane screeches. “It-it-it was _him_! Potter!”

“Potter?” Johnson repeats in disbelief, her attention going between the three, but lingering longest on Tom, as if looking for evidence that he is to blame, and not her Gryffindors.

“I think she botched it,” Tom says impatiently as he lifts Harry from behind, taking an arm around his shoulder. “We can discuss the details later. Harry needs to see Madam Pompfrey.”

“And Romilda doesn’t?”

“She should have thought about that earlier.”

“But, Tom!”

“Take her to McGonagall and _don’t_ follow us. She can’t be anywhere near Harry, not until he’s resolved.”

Tom doesn’t stick around to hear Johnson’s trivial response. He starts for Pompfrey’s, Harry’s arm swung around him, and his own arm snaked around Harry, steadying his teetering gait.

“Where is Vane? Where’d she go?” Harry mutters wildly. “The chocolate, she… she insisted, and I took one, but they were drugged, I didn’t… and then I… Oh my God, Tom. I hurt her.”

“Shh, love,” Tom soothes. “You can’t blame yourself for what you’ve done. It was her fault alone.”

But was it?

_‘Not enjoying my hands on you now, are you? Such a shame. Tell me, what would you like me to do with your corpse when I’m done with you?’_

He represses the memory.

_(‘Shame, innit?’ a younger Tom said, snapping back the neck of a tabby, smiling as its tail fell limp. ‘Don’t mind letting me pet you now, yeah? Pity for your owner. Reckon she’s got enough of your lot anyhow. Think she wants you back? ‘Spose I should leave you there for her on the stoop?’)_

Ascending the stairs, cautious of the risk of Harry falling, Tom slows their pace. “Just a little bit further, Harry. It’s only a Love Potion. We’ll get you sorted.”

(His father’s voice echoes, _‘…it took me years of therapy to get my wits back…’_ and so, too, does Slughorn’s: _‘Children born of Love Potions demonstrate a higher likelihood of developing mood disorders and cognitive disabilities.’_ He even hears Mrs. Cole of all people, dropping a heavy stack of paperwork and sighing. _‘I swear, Tom, you were born causing trouble. Another stunt like this, and you’ll be off to the bloody control centre!’_ )

“Here we are.” Tom pushes open the door to the hospital and settles Harry onto the nearest cot. “Madam Pompfrey?”

Pompfrey emerges from behind a curtain at the end of the room. “Tom? Is that Harry Potter? What’s happened?”

“He’s been given a Love Potion. He needs help.”

 

*          *          *

 

Harry inhales, exhales, tries to keep his eyes in focus.

“How much did he take?”

He looks up dazedly at Madam Pomfrey.

“I don’t know. It was laced in some chocolate.”

“Only a bite,” Harry says, wincing.

She looks taken aback, perhaps surprised that he’s so aware. This isn’t a normal reaction, he realizes. Every pleasant thought of Romilda Vane that bubbles up, is dismissed, blocked by a blur of white and the faintest hiss. The flash of a curl— _kill._ The bat of eyelash— _kill_. Her voice, mellifluous, singing a hymn— _kill._

Harry doubles over and retches.

“Here you are, lad,” the nurse says, summoning something from a cabinet, a small bottle of a blue liquid. “One sip should be enough.”

Harry struggles to handle the bottle with his trembling fingers, spilling sloshes onto himself as he swallows.

“Do you know who the chocolates were from?” He glances up at the nurse and nods. “Good. You should report them immediately. Love potions are no laughing matter!”

The antidote is almost immediate, her form and her voice slowly fading, falling out of sight. Harry lets out a breath of relief and lies on his back.

“In all my years, I’ve never seen such a poor attempt at a Love Potion. Tom, did you notice anything else?”

_Kill her._

“I don’t know, Madam Pompfrey. I think she may have spiked it. I would like to contact Dumbledore. This is grounds for immediate expulsion.”

_Kill her._

“Yes, I agree. I’ll alert him now.”

_Kill her._

Harry’s eyes snap open. “I need some air.”

He rocks himself to his feet and forces his clumsy legs to the outdoor balcony, where cool wind tickles the hanging bell chimes. Their melody is dissonant, unnerving. He presses his knuckles into his eyes and wills the night to numb him, to cool over this iron hot anger in the pit of his chest. The monster will not leave him. His head pounds with hisses and sibilant whispers in ceaseless repetition: _Should’ve killed her, should’ve killed her, she deserved it, should’ve killed her._

The latch clicks, and there are soft footsteps, the clack of boots on stone.

“Harry, I’m sorry this—”

Harry shakes his head. “No, Tom. I want to be alone.”

“Harry, you’re just confused.” Tom places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Look at me.”

_Should’ve killed her, should’ve killed her, should’ve killed her._

“I can’t go on like this,” Harry whispers, his voice breaking on the last word.

On a sigh, Tom steps in front of him and takes his elbows, rubbing thumbs into the delicate hollows. “It’s alright, Harry. She’ll be expelled.”

“I almost killed her, Tom.”

“It was self-defense.”

“No, Tom. It wasn’t. I lost control. Again.”

“You responded as you should have. Imagine what she could have done to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry mutters brusquely. “She’s just a little girl. I should’ve just walked away. I _would_ have walked away, but I couldn’t even process what was happening. That thing inside of me, it took over.” He dares to peer up. “You took over.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Tears build in Harry’s eyes. “Yes, I do. It’s you, Tom. It was always you. The more I try to ignore it, the more it creeps up. I can’t connect to anyone anymore. Not my friends, not my parents.” His lips quaver. “Not even you.”

“Listen to yourself, Harry. You don’t even know what you’re saying. Let’s get away for a while. I want to take you to the mountains. When we’re there, I can—”

“No!” Harry shouts, tearing his arms free. “You aren’t listening to me! I can’t go on pretending that this is alright. It’s not alright. _You’re_ not alright.”

“What are you implying?”

_Should’ve killed her, should’ve killed her, should’ve killed her._

“I can’t take it anymore! There’s something wrong with you, Tom! I don’t know what it is, but it’s nasty, and it’s cruel, and it’s _killing me_.”

In Tom’s expression there is no passion, no concern, no wrinkle; there is only an unaffected stare, dull and inhuman in its blankness. Harry’s stomach hardens as he fears for the worst. Then there is a glint, some subtle sign of life in the twitch of Tom’s lips, and Harry, raw with anger, seizes it again, unwilling to let Tom descend into himself.

“Did you hear me, Tom? Do you still think I don’t know what I’m talking about? You still want to patronize me, tell me how stupid I am?”

This time there is no twitch.

“Oh, fuck off, Tom! Don’t act all innocent. All you’ve ever wanted to do was control me. You never loved me.”

Tom is stone, not flesh.

“Say something!” Harry gasps, throwing forth his arms and shoving Tom, who barely budges. “Don’t just stand there staring at me, you bloody psychopath!” Another push, a shake, a half-hearted slap. “Tom? _Tom_?”

At long last the hood flares. Tom draws back his shoulders and squints, and steps forward, so close that his breath is on Harry’s forehead, tingling his scar.

“Hit me again.”

Harry’s jaw stiffens. “Is that a threat, Riddle?”

“Do it.”

If this is bait, Harry doesn’t care. Let Tom hex him, curse him, skin him to the marrow. He cannot think, cannot hear himself over the hissing, the rage, the rapid thumping of blood. His hand becomes a knot of bone, tied to a slingshot and reeling back, and in the next second, there is darkness; a crunch; a gasp.

His own.

Moonlit, Tom is a pale ghost, marked by red that streaks from his nose to his mouth. His smile curves too high to be real.

“Tom, I’m...”

“You no longer want me. So be it. I’ll go my own way and let you go yours. But before I do, I have one last question for you, Harry. Did I make you hit me? Or did you choose to do it because it’s simply who you are?”

Speech flees Harry. In this moment, time slows. A blink lasts a minute, Tom’s step back, a century. Harry’s own feet are bound, keeping him captive to watch as Tom licks their blood from his lips.

He leaves without another word, and Harry stays in place, his quiet cry masked by chimes as all that he is, goes rot.

 

*          *          *

 

_Riddle:_

_The unwarranted aggression in your last letter was most amusing. You have written such unfounded accusations, and for what reason? I had not yet formed assumptions about your personal well-being, much less shared them._

_Perhaps it would bring you some comfort to know that Lily is not a gossip. All she has said about you is what was necessary to convince me that this arrangement is not a total waste of time._

_I, too, am a half-blood, born to a witch and a Muggle, and I was also in Slytherin at Hogwarts. It is no myth that our House attracts those with Dark potential. I fell all too quickly into this trap and, like you, I do not attribute this fall to loneliness or lack of purpose. I was curious and talented, and I wanted to become powerful. Simple as._

_Am I understood?_

_Signed,_

_S. Snape_

 

*          *          *

 

“You alright there, Tom?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I just need to concentrate.”

If asked, Theo would have told Tom months ago that this tryst was fated for sour climax. But Theo was never solicited, and his advice went unheard, and so now Tom is plunging his hand into a bugbear carcass, some ten pounds thinner than he was at the start of term.

“I can’t get a proper hold of it.”

Theo sighs and tugs the incision wider, fraying the gray connective tissue with the lit end of his wand. “Just sink your fingers in so we can get out of here. I fear we’ve grown too old for the grace of the centaurs.”

“Fine,” Tom says sharply. Inside the beast there is a gentle pop followed by an audible ooze. Tom withdraws his arm, slowly, letting the grease and gunge of innards fall in slops. “Here we are.” He unfurls his hand with a satisfied hum. The calcified stone shudders and whines.

“Perfect,” Theo says conclusively, glancing over his shoulder at the distant rustling of brambles. “Time to go.”

“As you wish. _Evanesco_.”

The furry hunk of the Purple-Speckled Bugbear fades into nothingness. Nott wipes sweat from his brow and treads ahead of Tom, as quiet and quick as he can be without slipping in the snowmelt. Too long it’s been since their last misadventure. Somehow Theo forgot how intrepid Tom is.

“It’s the oaf’s home,” Tom says, pointing through the slit of trees, to the modest hut. “You can relax.”

Theo does not breathe properly until he and Tom are well past the edges of the Forbidden Forest, where he finds the sky staining pink around a low sun. Tracking a bugbear was no easier than it sounded when Tom suggested it.

“If we start to brew within the next ten minutes, we can finish before curfew.”

“Dinner first,” Theo states firmly. “You’re completely drained of color. I thought you were going to pass out back there.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“And yet I am.”

Here comes the pout disguised as a frown. Theo peaks at it from the corner of his eye, and smiles; neither time nor the Universe Hopper could hope to change Tom.

“We can take a Replenishment Potion.”

“Ah,” says Theo softly. “So that’s how you’ve been doing it.”

Avoidance of Potter at all cost: this is Tom’s newest quirk. He skips meals, skips classes, disappears into the night, going Merlin knows where. It was always something with him, wasn’t it? The consequences of this extend further than Theo anticipated, even further than in third-year, when that roguish Lestrange boy pinned Tom as his primary target. That time, his avoidance was a matter of scheming, revenge—and when the day came, it was triumphant, for Tom and for Theo, and all the brute’s victims. It is pleasing to imagine Tom out late, plotting his revenge on Potter, but Theo knows this cannot be. 

Too often he overhears Tom heaving his stomach into the toilet. It is part laughable, part baffling. Never did he think Tom capable of love, much less lovesickness.

“Are you going to help me with the draught or not?”

“Why don’t we leave it for another night, Tom? There is no rush.”

Tom snorts derisively. “No rush? Tomorrow is the first of March. I’ve already wasted enough time as it is.”

“What are you hoping to do with an Alihotsy Draught anyway, Tom? Befuddle McGonagall into forgiving your absence from class?” Theo laughs behind closed lips. “Good luck with that. If you weren’t a Muggle-born, she would’ve already reported you.”

“I’m not going to use it, you fool. I’m going to sell it at the Hog’s Head. Slughorn mentioned there’d be a large clientele this weekend. You’ll get half, of course.”

“Saving up for something pretty?”

“Hardly.”

“What? Plan on doing a runner?”

There is a drawn pause.

Theo nods. “Right then.”

“You’re a good friend, Theodore, but the less you know, the better.”

“You’ve chosen the wiser of two ways.” Theo smiles. “How about you leave for the dungeons while I grab food for us both? I shouldn’t take long.”

“Alright,” Tom says permissively. “But be quick about it. Once I’ve broiled the Belladonna, there won’t be much time.”

They part at the Castle entrance. Theo does not take too seriously Tom’s time mandate. He enters the Great Hall idly, stalling outside the high-rise doors for a lingering moment to view the High Inquisitor’s decrees.

At yuletide Father confessed his lack of faith in the Minister. ‘ _So long as Dumbledore lives, there will be no great changes in Britain._ ’ But then, Father never liked Dumbledore and, in private, he tends to overstate the extent of his influence, as if it were conspiracy. Theo has outgrown blind trust in Father’s sentiments. Dumbledore does not seem stronger than the Minister as he is now, chatting with McGonagall in his periwinkle robes. It is Umbridge the students fear, not Dumbledore. 

“Theo,” greets Draco in acknowledgment.

“Hello, Draco. Pansy. Zabini.”

Theo transfigures the spare button in his pocket into a carrying box and begins stacking durable foods: apples, bread, biscuits, oranges. As he positions them, he allows himself to glance discreetly at the Gryffindor Table. The Universe Hopper sits flanked by the Mudblood and scumsucker Weasley. It is of some consolation to Theo that his face is expressionless while his friends laugh and natter.

“Take a photo, Nott. It will last longer.”

“Why, Zabini? Would you like one?”

“Ooh, is he fancying someone?” says Pansy accusatorily. “Has our little Theo finally blossomed?”

“Like a corpse flower,” drawls Zabini.  

Draco claps his gauntlet on the table. “No, no. I fear it’s nothing so exciting as that.”

“Don’t hold back!” Pansy giggles. “Tell us what you know, Draco.”

“I could tell you in English, but maybe it’s better I say it in a language Theodore can understand— _ruff_ , _ruff!_ ”

Theo rolls his eyes. “That’s rich coming from Umbridge’s favorite lapdog.”

“At least serving the High Inquisitor has its uses. Must be hard to take orders in between—” Draco holds his stomach and pretends to vomit.

“No kidding,” Zabini sneers. “I’m surprised Riddle hasn’t spit out a lung yet.”

Theo secures the box with a hemp tie and folds it in his arm. “Laugh if you’d like, but I hope you realize that when our days at Hogwarts come to an end, the petty politics of this House will no longer matter.”

“And?” Draco asks with a pitch of indifference, the subtle undertone of a threat just the same as it was when they were tots.

“His will is stronger than yours, Draco.”

Perhaps the drama in his tenor is a bit of an overkill but at least it shuts Draco up long enough for Theo to leave with the last word. The silly prat is so very much like his arse-licking father. Neither see too far beyond than their own pointed noses. Draco wants admirers, followers, but has he ever thought to acquire skills which could make him an attractive leader? No, and, why would he? Neither the Blacks nor the Malfoys have fight in their veins. Their world is catered.

That is what makes Tom special by comparison. Even when he is acting uncouth, his company promises to keep things interesting.

Indeed, now may be an extreme case of this. As Theo approaches their preferred classroom, he hears Tom’s low voice humming through the stone. He places an ear to the door.

“…ever shut up? Yes, I hear you, you worthless ponce, I can’t stop hearing you. I’m doing everything in my power to get rid of you. I don’t care what you want. I want you to leave me alone, and I don’t…”

Theo peels his ear from the cool surface. Is Tom going mad? Hesitantly, he unlocks the bolt and eases open the door.

Over the cauldron, Tom leans, a hand planted on either side. He raises his head at an angle that casts shadows in the planes of his face. “Took you long enough.”

The gruffness in his words raises the fine hairs on Theo’s neck.

“Tom,” Theo says gently, “why don’t you have a seat?”

Tom inhales a tremulous breath through his nose. “I don’t have time for that, Theodore. I need you to get started on the witheria extract.”

“I brought dinner. Let’s just sit down and eat, and then we can get started on the draught.”

“Am I speaking in tongues, Nott? You need to start now, or else the Belladonna will—”

“Forget the draught,” Theo pleads. “What would it fetch anyway? Thirty galleons? I can spare you that, Tom.”

“I don’t need your charity,” Tom snarls.

“Fine. Father can set you up with a loan. No interest. Just relax, alright?”

Tom closes his eyes and brings his hands to his cheeks, the slightest tremor evident as he presses in. When he finally rests, it is a clumsy step backward, nearly a collapse. Theo rounds on him cautiously while undoing the twine on the box. He opens its folds and proffers the food.

“Eat something.”

Tom glances at the food curiously, then frowns. “No, I’m not hungry.”

Theo places the box on the counter and sighs. “I know we’ve drifted somewhat in the past year, but I still care for your well-being.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tom mumbles tetchily. “I’m as well as ever.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve never seen such depths in you. Is your love for him really so intense?”

Tom’s snarl transforms into laughter. Though Theo knows it well, he still winces, the sound an eerie pitch that pulls from the throat and flows uncontrollably.

“Tom, maybe we should go to Slughorn. You don’t seem to be thinking clearly.”

The laughter stops abruptly, the grin shrinking into a smile that is calm; too calm. “You think I love him?”

“What other excuse is there for this? You either care for him and wish for reconciliation, or you have followed your love so far, it has become schizophrenia.”

“What are you, a bloody poet? I don’t love him. In fact, I hate him.”

“Worse yet. There is no emotion more intimate than hatred."

His eyes roll. “Piss off, Nott.”

Theo laughs once, humorlessly, and reaches into the box for an apple. “Take this.”

Tom’s eyes trail up from Theo’s hand, to his neck, to his eyes, where they stay fixed. Theo raises a brow and smirks suspiciously. “I’m not interested in men, you know.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” Tom says simply, turning his attention to the apple. He lifts it to his lips tentatively, and bites, gently breaking open the red peel. His chewing is slow, labored.

Theo summons an empty phial and fills it with a silent Water-Making Spell. As soon as he extends it, however, Tom is jumping from his seat, sloping over the lit cauldron and expelling his stomach.

“Merlin, Tom. If you keep on like this, there won’t be anything left of you.”

“Just leave me, Theodore,” Tom says croakily, wiping himself clean of bile and snot. “I’m ill enough without your mockery.”

“You think I’m here to mock you?”

Tom spits and clears his throat. “I really don’t know what you’re here for. Of what use am I to you anymore? If I stay in Britain, I’m bound for prison, and if I leave, I’m gone, and I’m not coming back.”

“So, what? I chose your companionship well before it could prove instrumental.”

“You knew what I could become,” Tom chirps back defensively.

Theo snorts; if it takes sappiness to pull the stubborn moron out of this, then, well. He will.

But just this once.

“Do you honestly think that I had such foresight at eleven, Tom? I liked you because you were different, not because you were clever. My whole life, I’ve been surrounded by the same stuffy elitists, all of them flaunting their names and money in lieu of personality.

“Then there was you, ironing your tattered robes, handling your secondhand books with care. Every time I spoke to you, you sounded less harsh and urban, as if you’d been practicing.

“Father always told me, _‘Bet your galleons on the survivor. They’ll adapt when others won’t.’_ He knew it from experience. My fool of a grandfather gambled away half of our estate less than a year before Mother…well, you know what happened to my mother. It was up to Father to redeem us, and he did, and by his example, I learned how to see people for what they truly are.”

Tom, who has collected himself, brushes a loose curl behind his ear, posture straight and dignified. “All that talk, and you still managed to avoid my question. _What does it matter to you?_ How will my – ” his voice drops low and sardonic “ – _tragic_ childhood advantage you when I am far out of reach?”

“Honestly?” Theo asks in a vacant tone. “If it is so hard for you to accept that I am your friend, sans profit, then I needn’t wonder where your little liaison with Potter went awry.”

Their eyes meet, and Theo fills with regret, expecting outrage in some sort of loud, dramatic explosion of indignation and hollow threats. Yet instead, Tom laughs. Not his high and callous caw, nor some derisive grunt, but a deep and resonant noise, one Theo has not yet heard, not in all their time together.

The handsome features soften.

“If only you knew.”

Maybe Potter did leave his mark.

Theo could faint.

 

*          *          *

 

Draco Malfoy knocks twice: once at the center of the door, once at its top. _It will be our little code_ , she said to him. Yeah, she said a lot of things. She likes to do that, build students up by tearing down others, both implicitly and otherwise. Her esteem no longer feels as privileging as it did when he was appointed, and still, he’s here.

He must be. It is an honor to serve your Minister, Draco. He will reward your loyalty, Draco. Do what you must to remain in his favor, Draco.

“You may come in, Draco.”

His stomach is clenches.

“High Inquisitor,” he acknowledges upon entrance, his head bowed. “I come bringing intel.”

“Very well,” she permits, gesturing at the pink-cushioned bergère. “My time, however, is limited, so do make it quick.”

Draco swallows. “Yes, of course, High Inquisitor. It’s about Potter. I have reason to believe he’s plotting something. For the past two weeks, his closest friend, Tom Riddle, has skipped most of his classes. I thought nothing of it until I realized that Potter has been leaving our shared classes, every day, at precisely the halfway mark.”

Her thin lips shrink into a tight circle, puckered but sagging, like a shriveled floret. “A student of interest has been skipping classes, and you’ve only _just_ decided to let me know?”

“I made an error of judgement,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “I assumed the professors were handling matters, but when I raised the issue to Professor Slughorn, he shrugged me off.” He expresses distaste with a foul smirk. “Evidently, the faculty as this school have no respect for the Ministry.”

“I’m well-aware,” she says, her smile growing. “But worry not, young Draco. Things will soon fall into place as they should. I’m currently expecting a most _important_ visitor.”

Behind her desk, the small stove fireplace begins to shake, exhuming fuchsia flames that fill the room with glitter.

“Indeed, that should be them now!” she squeals excitedly, hopping up to her feet and rushing into the smoke. “You should be on your way now, Draco. Your continued service to the Ministry is both noted and appreciated.”

Draco rises to his feet and makes to leave, but briefly, he stops his fingers short of the knob, too curious to leave before sparing a glance at the visitors. Two curly-heads of hair emerge from the Floo. One is tall and severe, pretty but aged by a sour grimace. At her side is a screeching girl. Her hands are spread over her face, covering up something, something nasty that Draco catches at the side of short finger.

A bright red pustule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much love to you all. ♥
> 
> i loved going into theo's perspective, i felt a strong need to develop him. 
> 
> also did most of y'all know that, in the canon, his father was one of the original death eaters at hogwarts with tom riddle -- aaand -- he was also the one who invented the time-turner in _cursed child_? i feel like there's unmet fic potential here. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> \- Amelinda


	7. Umbridge Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's a few content warnings! Should be alright with most readers, but just in case:
> 
> \- disordered eating ( _note_ : a metaphoric depiction; not related to body image problems);  
> \- references to suicide;  
> \- (somewhat?) graphic description of a corpse; and  
> \- a parable about rape and cannibalism

It is at noon on the eve of Hogsmeade weekend that Tom finally discovers the secret of Snape’s correspondence tactic.

The letter is handed to him by a dingy little thing in a pinafore. She’s kempt, as far as house-elves go, and she doesn’t seem bothered by Tom’s lack of acknowledgment. As she Disapparates from the Slytherin Dormitory, Tom opens her missive.

The small, slant writing reads:

> _Riddle:_
> 
> _Your silence does not bode well with our agreement._
> 
> _I shall grant you one more week to respond. If you fail to do so, I will contact Lily._
> 
> _Do not take this warning lightly. With what you know, you are a liability._
> 
> _Signed,_
> 
> _S. Snape_

How threatening! Unconcerned, Tom crumples the parchment and drops it on the floor. Let Lily think what she wants. Let Dumbledore punish him. It is an inevitability; everyone detaches from mad Tom Riddle eventually. Even his great admirer, Slughorn, has begun his journey to disappointment.

He waddled in at dawn, plum-faced and heaving, dressed in robes but scarcely prepared, his ungroomed moustache splaying in wires. Tom made to duck behind the chaise, but no chance of that. On him, Slughorn was set and determined. First-years bore witness to the unimaginable: Slughorn, in a fit of rage, dragging Prefect Tom from the Common Room, plump fingers screwed around his arm so tightly, it’d surely bruise.

His routine was rusty, but Tom remembered it well enough--stay still, no excuses, wait for rebuke. The lecture was no different from a wizard’s mouth than it was from Muggles’.

You are wasting your potential. You cannot continue like this. You must do what is expected of you.

Strange thing is, Tom did not mind it. Getting away with misdeeds is preferable, sure, but there is a special thrill that comes with getting caught, too. Air fraught with tension, hands on hips, eyes on him. _Here I am. Look at me. I won’t be ignored._

_‘How fucked must you be to take pleasure in this?’_

He laughs. Who cares. He always has, always will. Just as Harry will seek another man who is callous, who reminds him of his uncle, who cannot reciprocate the kindness he offers with ease. That is how humans are. Programmed young and never-changing. Wherever there was a boy available to harm, Tom was ready and eager. He’d hurt girls, too, if it came down to it, but such cases were instrumental, not sadistic. Girls simply had no shame. They’d cry, run, tell, accuse, gloat. Boys, however. They were the fun ones. Burying it all down deep, refusing to seek help, blushing and cowering and quivering…

Funny thoughts, these. Harry’s uncanny ability to make Tom think about such things is an unexpected talent. He wonders what Harry would think of him, if he saw the clean, sharp dips of skeleton pressing out his paper-pale complexion. Would it be disgust, or would it be pity? Harry owns both in abundance.

Emptily, Tom reaches for the phial beneath his pillow. He uncaps it, gulps the tasteless slime and swings his legs to meet the floor. His independent study hour is almost over, and, if Slughorn wasn’t bluffing, Tom will be reported to Dumbledore if he misses Double Arithmancy. Scrutiny is the last thing he needs.

Beneath his robes, he layers his clothes twice over to hide the evidence of his poor diet. He loathes to feel his abdomen, where his own bones mock him. The last time he was so slim was at the other side of puberty. How ironic. What began as an attempt at control and discipline has spiraled into another erratic variable he must contend with.

He leaves early to avoid traffic in the corridors. The halls are desirably solemn, stray patters the lone sign of life that is not his own. He takes it slow, breathes easily. Walking the Castle while knowing that tomorrow, he will leave it for good, his skin prickles with hesitancy.

_‘You can’t leave him, you know.’_

He can and he shall. If bad comes of it, then Harry has only himself to blame. He chose this.

_‘You care for him.’_

As much as he’s cared for those who came before him. Harry is like his childhood friends, like Theo. Entertaining for a time, but, ultimately disposable.

_‘You love him.’_

“Shut up,” he mutters.

A migraine begins with a hum in the back of his head. He tries to quell it by running his hand through his hair, eyes on his feet as he mounts the stairs. The bannister keeps him steady when he reaches the top. Gripping the wood, he squeezes together his eyes and shudders. He must eat today. No more potions, no more broths.

“Tom?”

Through his half-lidded wince, there is Granger.

Grimacing.

“Hermione,” he quietly greets. “I hope you’ve been well.”

“Do you?” she says sardonically. “Because I haven’t been. But never mind that. I followed you here because of something that could be serious.”

He sighs tremulously, holds his head tighter. “And that is?”

“Harry.” Black eyes water at the edges. “It’s Harry. Umbridge has taken him to Dumbledore’s office. I was with him when she came, she said something about severe consequences…” The tears fall freely down dark, round cheeks. “We’re going to be sent down,” she whispers, horror-struck. “No, not just sent down. We’re going to get arrested, Tom. Azkaban, or worse… and Harry… What do you think will happen to Harry?”

Harry.

The word _disposable_ ridicules Tom in a hiss, hoarse and cold, as he sees a slow reel of the boyish smile, the sinewy arms, the bespectacled eyes, the brilliant green. He blinks, slowly curls his fingers. His posture has slumped. His palms are warm. Unthinkingly, he reaches, gently laying a hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Her lips twist in an awkward, uneasy smirk. “But at least we prepared for this, right? Me and you. We drafted a plan, in case of exposure. You haven’t given up on this, have you?”

The warmth recedes. He withdraws his hand from her and slowly lowers it to rest by his side.

“It is almost time for class. Goodbye, Hermione.”

He is feet in the distance when her voice breaks with words that make him halt.

“Not even for him?”

 

*          *          *

 

Umbridge’s pink heels clap ahead like chicken pecks.

“I’m sure this may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Potter,” she says in a hushed voice, her words coming out strained and deliberate. “No doubt you have long considered yourself above the laws of our world. But I knew deep down there was never reason to fret. _Sherbet lemon._ ”

The gargoyle statue protecting Dumbledore’s office shifts. Harry stalls in slow steps behind her, his thoughts passing in constant succession: Who is in there? What do they know about him? Is it about the D.A.? Will he be taken straight to prison? How could they even know about it, unless someone blabbed?

 _Has_ someone blabbed?

(Was it Tom?)

_God, no. No. Pull yourself together, Harry._

He enters with quiet bravado.

Dumbledore’s office is a vast, circular room filled with curious sights. Before Harry can glance over its peculiarities—the knickknacks, the chatting portraits, the dancing silver instruments—his attention is demanded by the other occupants: Dumbledore, looking oddly serene behind a claw-footed desk; a woman with a mass of curly hair; and a red-topped, freckly man who cannot be much past his teens.

Harry thinks this is all there is, until, in the corner of his eye, there is a shimmer of black.

It is him.

“We meet again, Mr. Potter.”

“Minister Grindelwald,” rasps Harry. “What are you doing here?”

The curly haired woman growls. “Seriously? You thought you would get away with this, didn’t you, you little monster?”

Harry flinches at her manic sneer. “Who are you?”

“I’m the mother of the girl you tried to kill.”

“What?” Harry looks around in shock and confusion. “Is that what this is all about? We settled that weeks ago. Romilda had me drugged. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Perhaps not,” the Minister says. “But there is, I think, something you do know about, Mr. Potter.”

Shite.

Harry stills his face, as best he can. “What do you mean, Minister?”

“Don’t play dumb!” Umbridge bursts. “You know very well what we’re talking about.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Harry says blandly.

“You smarmy brat,” curses Romilda’s mother, pointing her finger. “My daughter told me as much as she could before your nasty little hex came into play. She said you were planning an uprising against the Ministry.”

Dumbledore speaks. “An uprising in which she was to take part, Madam Vane?”

“I won’t stand for accusations, Dumbledore. My daughter may have made a mistake but she has more than paid for it.”

“Where is your proof?” Harry spits. “Is it her word against mine?”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient, Mr. Potter?” says Umbridge, her voice raising to a shrill pitch. “I knew that if what Ms. Vane said was true, there would have to be a meeting place. Then I was reminded of a certain incident which took place last month, and after a bit of investigation, I came across _this._ ”

From the pocket of her robes, Umbridge withdraws the list of names that had been pinned upon the Room of Requirement's wall and hands it to the Minister.

“As soon as I saw Potter’s name on the list, I knew what we were dealing with.”

“Interesting, very interesting,” says the Minister. “Percy, I think you too will find this interesting.”

He perks. “Oh?”

“Yes, indeed. But that is a matter we can discuss later. At the moment my most pressing curiosity is—” he levitates the paper and turns it around “—why Mr. Potter, here, chose to call his little cell Dumbledore’s Army.”

Harry says nothing. He is so swollen with guilt, he can barely breathe. Hermione shouldn’t have written Dumbledore’s name. They shouldn't have left written evidence at all! 

Dumbledore summons the piece of parchment from the Minister. He peers over Hermione’s scrawled heading and looks down the list, at all its many signatures. Harry braces, his shoulders scrunched in a painful strain. He betrayed him, the Order, his parents, the cause…

Yet for some reason, Dumbledore smiles.

“Well, the game is up,” he says cheerfully. “Would you like a written confession from me, Gellert, or will a statement before these witnesses suffice?”

He’s… he’s taking the blame?

The Minister sighs through his nose, lips smirking in a way that does not seem harsh so much as it doubtful, like a mother gazes at her naughty child. “You cannot think I am a fool, Albus.”

“No,” Harry cuts in, shaking his hands, “it wasn’t him, it was—”

Dumbledore waves his index finger. “This is no time for heroics, Harry. I’m afraid I’ve nowhere left to hide.”

The Minister’s accent grows sharper as he speaks. “Albus, you are surely having a joke.”

“Dumbledore’s Army,” he says, still smiling, waving the parchment in gesture. “Not Potter’s Army, Gellert. Unless you think Aberforth had some hand in this, you must accept I am the due culprit. If anything, I am offering you a convenience. I cannot imagine you have any interest in pursuing each of these students.”

“We certainly do!” Umbridge squeals.

“Yes, I am sure that the Boots, the Smiths, and the Changs are valueless to the Ministry. Or do you believe they would choose you before their own children, Gellert?”

The Minister tuts once, angrily. “Very well. Percy, have you written this all down?”

“Yes!” shouts Percy, writing so quickly, ink is spilling down his hands.

“Let us end this,” says the Minister impatiently. “Percy, duplicate your notes and send a copy to the _Daily Prophet_. Mention that Dumbledore will now be escorted back to the Ministry, where he will be formally charged before being sent to Azkaban to await trial.”

“Ah,” says Dumbledore gently, “yes. Yes, I thought we might hit that little snag.”

The Minister frowns at Dumbledore. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I have absolutely no intention of being sent to Azkaban, Gellert. I could break out, of course--but what a waste of time, and frankly, I can think of a whole host of things I would rather be doing. “

Both Percy’s and Umbridge's faces are growing steadily redder, the latter stuttering in an incoherent craze. The Minister, meanwhile, appears eerily calm, if slightly exasperated.

He says something in a throaty language, what Harry thinks must be German, and Dumbledore speaks back to him in the same tongue, though with a softer touch to the syllables. Without understanding their words, Harry understands their conclusion.

Dumbledore claps, and the room fills with smoke. It is thick but breathable, and in it, Harry sees nothing until he raises his chin. Above the clouds, beneath the high curved arch of the ceiling, a bright red bird with a long golden tail dives.

There is a flash; a wave of heat; and then nothing. The smoke is dispelled into ash that falls like black snow.

“Where is he?” yells Percy. “Is he gone?”

“He Disapparated!” Vane responds. “The traitor Disapparated!”

“He can't have!”' cries Umbridge. “You can't do it from inside the school!”

“You can’t,” says the Minister, patting his shoulder of stray dust. “But he can.”

The Minister stares at Dumbledore’s desk, appearing sad and conflicted. It could be genuine melancholy or it could be subdued rage; he is dangerous either way. Harry follows his eyes carefully, wound and tight and ready for the intrusion that never comes.

The Minister’s regard leaves the desk and moves to Umbridge. “I will acquire confirmation from the Board of Governors as soon as I can.”

She blinks rapidly, stupidly, mouth opening and closing. “You mean…?

“Hogwarts is yours, Headmistress.”

 

*          *          *

 

She is inaugurated on the night of Dumbledore’s disappearance.

On a stool at the lectern, she stands and tells the story of Albus Dumbledore, the first undesirable to be named by the new Ministry program against salacious and unlawful acts of defiance.

Henceforth, involvement in any anti-Ministry organization will warrant, at minimum, a lifelong sentence in Azkaban. Underage witches and wizards are exempt from incarceration but will be subject to reintegration via the Ministry’s innovative education facilities.

There is exception given to the charges misled by Dumbledore. Their punishment shall take place at Hogwarts. All who signed Dumbledore’s pledge are made public to the other students. Their names and photographs line the wall across from the Educational Decrees.

Hogsmeade visits are cancelled and all students will be subject to routine investigation in the form of bedroom checks and random frisks at the discretion of the Inquisitorial Squad. Furthermore, to ensure that further mutiny does not take place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Minister has approved the relocation of ten Azkaban Dementors to patrol the corridors.

These actions are not punishments, Dolores Umbridge ensures. They are precautions. They shall snuff the spark of insubordination and preserve the well-being of Britain’s brightest young witches and wizards.

“It is for the greater good.”

 

*          *          *

 

Back in the diary days, Tom preached his musings somewhat poetically. 

_‘Dams do not rupture overnight, Harry. Sure, it feels that way when the break comes, when the town drowns, when there is nothing left to salvage. But only the day-to-day citizen sees elements of fatalism. Educated minds know that the process can be observed, and measured, and predicted. Internal erosion can be tracked. Inflow can be calculated. We can all take responsibility in funding this maintenance, if we choose to do so.’_

Mostly they were vague and nonsensical, sometimes they were egotistical and cruel. Always, they belied an obsession Harry couldn’t understand.

_‘Power has nothing to do with morality. That is why some say power is corrupting--because it is preexists man. It governs us because we govern it. Do you follow my logic? There is an implicit order we cannot divorce ourselves from, no matter how we try. Only those who understand this stand a chance of navigating it. Think of it like this. Is the executioner of an innocent man evil, or is he simply doing what is expected of him?’_

Harry didn’t really get it, but what little he comprehended, he scoffed at.

_‘I don’t agree with whatever it is you’re on about, Tom. I would never kill at someone else’s bidding, if that’s what you think. I’d rather die than become another sheep of the government.’_

(The idea was partly his own instinct, but mostly it was born of Jake Whittleton, the first boy he kissed, who he never thinks about now, but who is always sort of lurking about. He was the older one. The one who’d read banned text, who smoked and snuck away to revolutionary meetings. Harry was eleven then. Too cowardly to follow Jake, brave enough to believe every word he said. Eventually the words became Harry’s own, and he told them to Tom as if he was purely original.)

Only now does he see the irony in that.

In an instant, all who signed Dumbledore’s parchment become the enemies of Muggle-borns and purebloods alike. Umbridge reads their names aloud, slowly and carefully. Forty-two students, spanning three Houses. Not a single Slytherin, she says. Let us take a moment to applaud the House of Salazar.

When she has finished speaking, and the murmurs begin, he hears their thoughts travel down the Gryffindor table.

“What about Riddle?”

“He must’ve been the snitch.”

“That bloody traitor!”

Harry can’t take it. He darts from his seat, ignoring the calls of Hermione and Ron, and speeds through glares and hateful sneers. He needs to be alone, to think things through, to _think_ at all. Clumsily, he thrusts himself into the boys’ lavatory, the one further from the Hall, where no one goes.

(He ignores the horrid sight in the furthest corner, the ghost girl hanging from a noose, in perpetuity.)

He clenches the porcelain basin of the sink and gasps, sucking in the air he forgot to breathe. The empty sink fills with cool water that he splashes and rubs into his hot cheeks. He cleans his eyes beneath their lenses, then lifts them slowly to the mirror.

The reflection flickers. The eyes staring at him are not his own. They are dark and endless, rare brown without opposition from yellows or greens or blues. Tom’s gaze pins Harry to his spot, eating him from the inside, burning through his fibers, squeezing his lungs and ringing them dry.

Harry blinks away the mirror’s deception. He can’t afford to slip away. Not now.

He turns his attention to the hanging ghoul. Inside his chest, the small, foreign part chills him numb: unsurprised by the distended face, streaked with veins; unaffected by the little dangling fingers of a prepubescent girl who thought her life too miserable to bear. Harry had thought himself helpless against the tug of apathy and cruelty, some marionette, strung at the whim of others.

But that's not true. Never was. He has a choice. Slowly and consciously, he opens himself to the girl, the child with a low and strangled whine, whose pupils follow him as he steps back, overwhelmed. She died here. She died at Hogwarts, because she was miserable. Harry takes his pity, turns it to power; how many more will choose this path as things get worse?

Resolute, he offs the faucet.

The corridor is crowded with students. He's been followed by a motley collection—betrayed Gryffindors, frightened allies, haughty onlookers, and, as he expected, Draco Malfoy. By his left side are his friends, Crabbe and Goyle, and on his left, his girl, Parkinson.

He smiles. “Hands on the wall, Potter.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he says disinterestedly, gesturing at his Inquisitorial pin. “Challenge my authority and I’ll bring you straight to the Headmistress herself.”

Around them, the spectators are wide eyed and murmuring. It is their first taste of barbarity, and each must decide how they feel about it. The vengeful among them cheer Draco on. Harry’s loyalist curse loudly. The majority are uncertain, and simply watch.

“Must I repeat myself, Potter?”

“No,” Harry mutters.

If it is theatre they want, he will play his part for now. He bends with his hands against the wall. “Bit gay, don’t you think, Malfoy?”

“You would know,” Malfoy says brutally. “Goyle, check him for illegal holdings.”

Harry grits his teeth as thick fingers handle him down his waist, up his robes, feeling him from his thighs to his socks.

“Behold,” Malfoy says to the crowd, “the great leader of Dumbledore’s Army. Headmistress Umbridge let Potter off easily at dinner, but as it were, I know the whole truth. Dumbledore used Potter to recruit the students. Tomorrow, as you miss out on the pleasures of Hogsmeade, remember who it is that caused this. Remember, as Dementors pass you by, who it is that violated the laws of a world he’s trespassed.”

“Spare us your dramatics, Malfoy.”

That voice.

So stunned is Harry, he does not turn immediately, but costively, inching his back to the wall to stare at what the crowd has parted to accommodate. Across from Malfoy, Tom stands tall, straight-backed and martial.

“Oh, look,” Malfoy drawls. “It’s loverboy to the rescue. How cute. Crabbe, check Riddle.”

Crabbe steps forward, but hesitates, observing Tom as one would a wild animal.

“You know better than this, Vincent,” Tom says dismissively. “And so do you, Draco. Or do you really think Dumbledore is responsible for commissioning a student rebellion against the Ministry?”

Malfoy’s smile fades. “What are you saying, Riddle?”

“Wait,” Tom says in that condescending tone one adopts for disbelief. “You’re telling me you really thought Albus Dumbledore, Britain’s most esteemed and decorated wizard, patched together a ragtag army of children and then had the audacity to name it after himself?”

“If not Dumbledore, then who? Potter?”

“Him?” Tom asks incredulously. “The kid who picked out his first wand last summer? Please. It was me. I led Dumbledore’s Army.”

Gasps cascade over the growing crowd, but Harry is too dazed to even blink.

“You’re lying!” retorts Malfoy dumbly. “You weren’t even listed at dinner!”

“The list Umbridge procured was flawed. Some students never signed, and some who signed, had only attended a few meetings. The truth is, it was a joint effort, but it was my idea. I created the concept. I organized the students. I’m who the mob should hold responsible.”

“But that can’t be!” shrieks Parkinson, stepping in between Malfoy and Tom, arms extended in desperation. “If it was you, then why was it called Dumbledore’s Army?”

Tom, looking the definition of cool, peers straight through her and shrugs. “For a laugh.”

Student turns to student, sharing quiet glances of confusion and surprise until the collective response is decided: laughter. Quickly, it spreads, melting over glum faces and diffusing the tension.

“But-but,” stutters Parkinson, “you’re a Slytherin!”

Tom smiles cheekily. “But I was a Mudblood first.”

And like this, it is decided—the crowd splits to make way for Tom, watching him in wonder as he saunters off, unhurried and equable. Malfoy rattles on but he is largely ignored, a child babbling in vain as the adult departs.

Harry himself feels childish. His legs are unsteady as he takes his first steps, following Tom to wherever he is going, no matter where that may be.

Tom does not look back. He has no reason to. He knows who it is, who it could only be. Harry follows him to the Dungeons, down at the classroom to Slughorn’s left. The place where it all began. Without wand or word, the lanterns flicker to life, and it is by this dim light, in the humid cold of this hideous room, that Harry can at last look upon the face that has eluded him.

“Christ.”

He pets the back of his fingers along a gray, sunken cheek. This close up, what was not noticeable in the distance, is positively glaring.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Thanks,” Tom deadpans. “I was hoping you’d notice.”

This can't be right. Reconciliation requires severity, respect. That’s what Harry had imagined to be an adequate return to normal during all those nights he spent alone. He dreaded this. Cursed himself, blamed himself, made himself sick with doubt and worry. But now, it’s not like that. Facing Tom’s humorously pursed lips, dark amusement rising up him, he can’t make himself adhere to that somber expectation. He can only laugh at the horror of it all.

“Malfoy nearly shat himself."

“He’s lucky I had to play it safe. If he touches you again, I’ll snap his fucking neck.”

Harry’s ears burn hot. “You didn’t have to do that, you know? It’s my fault we got caught. Romilda was the bloody sneak. If I’d had more control, I could have… Well, forgot about that. I know now that it was my fault. I’ve been working at it.”

“Of course you have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a good person,” he says plainly, an observation implied to be obvious. “An upstanding citizen, really.”

Harry scoffs with amusement. “Are you taking the piss?”

He smiles slightly. “Only a bit. You are a good person, and in a fair society, you’d be a model citizen, too.”

“Where’s all this coming from? I thought you’d be angry with me.”

“I’ve never been one for self-loathing, Harry.”

“Don’t put it like that, Tom. I’m not you. I’ve never been you. I realized how stupid I’d been the moment you walked away that night, but I was just so afraid. I shouldn’t have put the blame on you. I – ” His words catch in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Along his jawline, spindly fingers cling, delicate and possessive. He flushes.

“Do not tell me you’re sorry. Sorry is a word for strangers, and strangers, we are not.”

Harry swallows. “Then what do you want me to say?”

“That you will be loyal to me regardless of what I do to you.”

“You’re so bloody theatrical, Tom. I don’t blame you for what’s happened with me. I tried that, and it got me nowhere. Please,” he takes the hand on him and clasps it in ten fingers, “don’t underestimate me. I know who you are. I see you.”

Tom stares pensively at their hands, and though he does not show it, Harry can sense the presence of confusion.

“You do get it, don’t you?” Tom asks, aloof and sterile. “I only need you because you need me."

Dropping Tom’s hand, Harry steps in and snakes around him, pressing his face into the junction of his neck.

“I know, Tom. I know.”

 

*          *          *

 

_Mr. Snape:_

_Have you heard the tale of the witch who weaned her boy on unicorn blood? It was the first parable I learned at Hogwarts. If you don’t know, I will summarize._

_There once was a fair maiden who lived alone in the fens. She did not like the company of others and wished to stay in solitude until her final days. One day a man who dwelled nearby asked the maiden to bear an heir for his son. The maiden kindly but sternly refused the man’s offer. Offended, he asked her why she wasted herself by living on her own, and when she said she did not like men, he grew so angry that he raped her on her stoop._

_The maiden, forced to carry a baby she did not love, suffered a long and painful pregnancy. When the child was born she named him Itys and fed him only unicorn blood. Year by year, he grew less human and more monstrous, his fingers webbed and his pupils blown past his irises, giving him the appearance of an urchin._

_When the boy turned ten she sent him to his father’s cottage, where he feasted on live flesh from dusk until dawn. Satisfied, she brought her son back home and prepared him a bottle. However, having now tasted meat, the son could not be sated by blood alone. He turned on his mother and ate her, piece by piece, until she was nothing but hair and bones._

_At first listen, I liked the moral of the story, but, as time went on, and I learned that many wizards let such myths limit their research, I grew very annoyed with it. If you have truly delved as deep in the Dark Arts as you claim, then you, too, should be annoyed by this._

_There is no such thing as good and evil. I will not let my boundaries be drawn by superstition. But if you must know, I have refrained from the Dark Arts since our last._

_Sincerely,_

_Tom Riddle_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol ok so this chapter was really fucking hard to organize and write but thank you for reading my angst! 
> 
> pleased to know what you think. <3 your support keeps my interest alive.
> 
> oh and btw, because disordered behavior is so prominently featured here, i'm just going to clarify the clinical basis for how i characterize harry and tom.
> 
> \- harry is a combination of PTSD and complex trauma disorder (or C-PTSD)  
> \- tom is also mapped using characteristics of C-PTSD co-occurring with conduct disorder. 
> 
> if you have any questions about this, feel free to ask.
> 
> \- Amelinda


	8. The Serpent and the Eagle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Previous Chapter: 
> 
> Upon Romilda Vane's betrayal, Umbridge gathers evidence against Dumbledore's Army and brings Harry in for questioning before the Minister. Dumbledore claims responsibility and escapes arrest. Though the Minister doubts Dumbledore, he accepts his testimony and releases it to the media. Umbridge is declared Headmaster in his place. She publicly reveals each member who signed the parchment and announces the changes that will come at Hogwarts.
> 
> Because Tom did not sign the parchment, he initially evades the scrutiny of Umbridge. However, in the same day, he rescues Harry from Draco's bullying and announces himself as the DA's leader. The two then reconcile as the uncertain future looms before them.

Thick and acrid plumes cough from a pewter cauldron. Between each sputter, hot air escapes the curdles, the whine of steam pitched as high as a dragon whistle. Severus counts the seconds with the click of his tongue.

“You sound like an egg timer.”

Severus allows himself a small smile. It fades as he stirs and caps the pot for simmering. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Muggle, Evans.”

Her delicate hand runs through threads of deep auburn, tucking it back so that the lovely smile can be traced up a high, rounded cheek. “Maybe that’s for the better. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m mocking you.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll make a poignant comment about your deepest insecurity?”

“What do you think I keep you around for?”

“My!" he says dramatically. "Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I wouldn’t have a negative word said against you.”

“Right...” she says, flourishing her wand and nearly knocking Severus’s mug of tea with the parchment she summons. “ _Your overuse of Wisteria Extract belies a tragic misunderstanding of Llewellyn’s ratio._ ”

He smirks and shrugs before ambling to the sink to rinse his hands. “Constructive criticism is fundamental to growth. You are no stranger to critiquing my work.”

“I didn’t say I disapproved!" she exclaims. "I admire your honesty. In fact, I need it. My other friends are much too considerate of my feelings.”

Her lips ease down as her green eyes fade. It is a subtle shift in demeanor that is transparent to him, who knows her best.

“I knew you’d have another reason for visiting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks in that affronted manner she so likes to feign.

“It’s not often you come to Spinner’s End. Least of all for matters of peer review.”

Her head lowers in resignation. “Oh, alright. You’ve caught me. But it’s not like I can have you over for tea. James rarely leaves the house, and I’m not exactly interested in mediating one of your passive aggressive pissing matches.”

“I don’t blame you,” he grants, holding his open palms in truce. “James and I rarely share the best of ourselves with each other. But let’s not dwell on it now. You obviously have something else on your mind.”

Lily sighs and turns away, crossing her arms and approaching the window, where the morning decay of industrial Cokeworth, obscured by blinds, still reminds of what once was. He focuses his attention on her instead. Nothing could ruin sweet Lily. Time has only brightened her shine. The lean figure, blossomed to curves, is voluptuous and fine, accentuated by the silk gown, which clings and falls in all the right places. He commits this sight of her to memory—her, in his house, where the vague fantasy of permanence is easier to suspend. But of course she must speak and ruin it all.

“I know that with all things considered, I really shouldn’t rattle on about the trial. It’s not as if the Wizengamot could possibly decide against him. We have half of the Ministry on our side. For heaven’s sake, we have Dumbledore on our side! We’re so much better off than we could be, but it’s just... It’s hard. Life’s been so unpredictable lately. I don’t really know what to think anymore.”

“Yes, unpredictable indeed,” he agrees, frowning. “And in more ways than one.”

She sighs into a swivel, and leans against the wooden window frame. “Tell me about it. I sometimes wonder if I should just flee. How nice it’d be to take Harry and James and say to hell with Britain.”

“It wouldn’t be impossible. Dorcas Meadowes is hiding out in the Americas, last I heard.”

“Only because her child is sick. She has no choice. James would sooner kiss a Dementor than flee like some coward.”

“And your son?”

She shakes her head. “Chip off the old block.”

Quite, Severus thinks, remembering his first glimpse of Potter’s obvious spawn. “The universe works in mysterious ways, does it not?”

“That’s one of way of putting it. You know, I used to get so excited by puzzles and riddles and all that rubbish. If a patient came in with something I didn’t recognize, I was absolutely chuffed because it meant there was a challenge. Then years passed, and those encounters became fewer and fewer. I was just starting to get comfortable when _bam_ … Remus shows up at my ward, saying a boy who looks just like James has appeared at Hogwarts.”

Severus has not forgotten the details from Lily’s first, second, or third retelling of the event, but he does not intrude on her rambling. She takes great pleasure in repeating stories from memory and searching for renewed meaning as she changes minor details, minor observations. This time she remembers instant trust in Remus’s news, but last time, she recalled being skeptical and doubting. Lily has always been this way: sharp as basilisk’s fang, yet also idealistic and retrospective and, at times, hopelessly sentimental; a true woman.

“…and within a week, it was as if he’d always been there! Can you imagine? What’s more, I could tell he felt the same way that James and I did. He loved us immediately.” She breathes wistfully. “He really is a beautiful boy. If something ever happened to him, I’d… Well, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“You’ll get through this, Lily,” he says, hoping his tone does not sound so distant as the words feel. “I’ve asked the other Unspeakables, many of whom are higher in the Minister’s favor than I am. They believe both your husband and son rank low in the Minister’s gambit. Especially if they continue to keep a low profile.”

Again, she turns to the window. “I wish your words could be of more consolation, Severus, but I can’t let myself fall into false security. Not after what happened on Boxing Day.”

Severus nearly rolls his eyes, but, realizing how sincere Lily is, he sighs instead. “I don’t think it is wise to let such fears labor you. That boy didn’t mean your son harm. He’s nothing more than a young fool.”

Lily’s hands knot inside the gown pockets. Severus smiles.

“You resent him?”

She seems to think about it, then shakes her head. “No. I don’t resent Tom. Couldn’t if I tried. He’s too much like you.”

“We share an interest in the Dark Arts, yes. But I’m quite sure that’s where the similarities end.”

Lily shifts and presses her shoulder to the wall, allowing the sun, sneaking in through slits, to slant over her caressing smile. “It’s in his eyes. They remind me of yours.”

“His eyes?

She exhales a wispy laugh, and smiles broader still. “I can’t explain it.”

There is a moment where Severus, annoyed, mulls through the comparison in silence, wondering why Lily wants to see him in this child, in these conflicted emotions, but as the answer purples, bruising itself into his mind, there is a rapid thumping, and his attention snaps to the front door.

“Snape! SNAPE! Lily’s here, right? Open the door!”

“It’s James!”

Lily rushes to the door and permits Potter into his home. The idiot is still in his nightclothes and his shamelessly messy hair is scruffier than usual, because if there is one thing the world can be sure of, it is that even under indictment, James is too good to look presentable. Severus eyes him askance as he lifts a newspaper in a shaking clench.

“I’m guessing you two haven’t read the _Prophet_ yet.”

 

*               *               *

 

“Ron…”

“I’m gonna bloody kill him.”

“Ronald,” Hermione whispers, tenderly removing the butter knife from his grip. “Please, calm down.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Hermione,” Ginny mutters, her cheeks dolefully pressed into her resting palms. “This is a family matter.”

“What’s the letter say, exactly?” asks Seamus.

“Says me and Ginny should bend over for Umbridge. Apparently he’s been promoted to the Minister’s top aid. Can’t believe I used to call him my brother, the bloody, stinking rat…”

“I didn’t know you had a brother who worked for the Minister,” Harry says, poking at his porridge without interest. Since the owls brought the morning mail, Ron and Ginny have been going on about a man they call ‘The Prat’.

“ _Former_ brother,” Ginny growls, shrugging off Luna’s tender petting.

Seamus shakes his head. “Always knew Percy was a prat, but I never expected something like this from him.”

Harry drops his spoon. “His name…his name is Percy?”

“Yeah,” Ron confirms. “Why’s that so shocking?”

“Er.” Harry pushes forward his bowl. “I think I met him. He was with the Minister yesterday.” He pauses at their horror-struck faces. “But, uh, he wasn’t so bad, really. All he really did was take notes for this bit of rubbish.” Harry points at the _Prophet_ article, crumpled, torn, and sopping with milk.

Ron and Ginny slump lower, and Ron says, bitterly, “Wish Dumbledore had been more violent with his escape. Maybe it’d have knocked some sense into him.”

“Oh, uh.” Harry checks his wristwatch. “I should be going.” He gathers his bag on his shoulder. “I’ll catch up later with you guys later.”

“You sure about that, mate?” Dean smirks and gestures with the slightest tip of his head to the aisle. Harry follows the direction of his signal and, with the smallest gasp, blanches at the looming figure of Tom.

Tom says nothing, not to Harry and not to the other Gryffindors, who watch with unhidden surprise as he sits at Harry’s right.

“Hello, Tom,” greets Luna airily.

“Hello, Luna.” He pours himself tea and nods at the others. “I hope you’re all well.”

“Don’t mind the silence,” Luna says. “They were upset with you for disappearing, but now that you’ve publicly outed yourself as the leader of Dumbledore’s Army, they’re more confused than angry. I suspect Nargles are to blame.”

“Nargles? No, nothing like that. I was ill, you see. Many of apologies for not explaining myself properly. I hope you don’t mind my company. You see, my House isn’t very happy with me at the moment.”   

“Huh. Bit of an understatement, that,” says Ron.

“Perhaps. If only we were sorted twice.”

“Not all of Gryffindor is pleased, you realize,” Harry says. “Word spread about what happened to Romilda and all her little friends went mental. Plus, some of the others are upset that they weren’t told about the jinx before signing.”

“Yeah, Hermione,” Ron mutters. “Could’ve used a heads-up there.”

“What?” she barks, clinking her fork into the plate. “Intend on squealing, did you?”

“Course I didn’t!”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Cut it out, you two,” Dean grunts. “Don’t you think there’s enough fighting going on as it is?”

“Yeah.” Ginny nods and slides an arm around Luna’s shoulder. “You heard what Umbridge said. Dementors are arriving tonight. If we can’t keep it together now, we won’t stand a chance of making it to June.”

“Ginny’s right,” Luna says. “Dementors are horrible creatures.”

“Have you met one?” Tom asks, seeming contemplative as he looks into his tea, milked whiter than Harry has ever seen him drink.

“Yes, I saw them when Daddy was sent to Azkaban.”

“Your father was in Azkaban?!”

It only occurs to Harry that this is insensitive when the others, even Tom, gawk at him with their brows lifted curiously. But Luna isn’t wired like other people. She nods without abashment.

“Only for a week,” she clarifies. “They suspected him of wrongdoing in the death of my mother. She had a nasty death, you see. Dumbledore helped clear Daddy of all charges.” She slants her head far to the right. “He even arranged for me to live with a very peculiar Squib during the time.”

“That’s awful, Luna,” Harry says consolingly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’m, uh… I’m curious. What’s it like in there? In Azkaban?”

She leans in and lowers her chin, letting pupils slide up to set straight on Harry. “Awful. The Dementors who keep guard are quite good at sucking the life out of you.” She perks and lifts a finger. “Metaphorically and literally. It was horrible for Daddy, of course, but he’s glad for it now. That’s where he learned what the Ministry is really getting up to. The inmates in Azkaban are very knowledgeable.”

“Right,” he whispers dumbly, imagining the inmates, wondering how many of them hold his father responsible, personally. He has been an Auror for two decades now. A conviction will spread his name, put all the attention of him: the once great crime fighter, turned enemy of the Ministry.

Harry almost voices the concern aloud but, as he opens his mouth, he notices Tom’s gaze. If he speaks more, his voice may crack. A show of weakness is the last thing he wants. He wants to appear strong. In control. Moping and meandering won’t save his father, it won’t save his friends, and it certainly won’t send the right message to Tom.

“We should have studied the Patronus Charm in the D.A.,” Hermione says, holding her cheeks. “Professor Lupin’s lesson only scratched the surface. I bet most students can’t even manage a wisp.”

Tom settles his goblet, white-knuckled. “You can produce a Patronus?” 

“Yes, I can. I practiced it quite a bit on my own, but I never thought to introduce it into our curriculum. I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” Tom says blankly, eyes averted. “You couldn’t have known.”

As the others praise Hermione, and as she rejects their applause, Harry observes Tom’s silent frustration. It was Professor Lupin’s first lesson and the first time—in fact, the last time—Harry intuited a spell that Tom could not. Harry should have admitted to himself, then, that something was wrong. It’s not as if he didn’t notice. He did. Had Tom been born dumber, less skilled and less handsome, Harry would’ve never convinced himself that these inadequacies were endearing.

But his handsome face isn’t as handsome anymore. His complexion is gray, his lips are chapped, his hollowed cheeks sink in too far. Beautiful still, but darker, bleaker and less charming. It must be an allure all its own, because the longer Harry stares, the further he feels his hand drift from his own lap, to the space between him and Tom. With the back of his knuckles, he strokes him from thigh to knee, slow and featherlike.

“Why don’t you teach us, Hermione?” Harry suggests, feeling Tom flinch from his touch as the whisper leaves his mouth.

Her lips go crooked. “With all this attention on us? I don’t know. It’d be dangerous, wouldn’t it? And we don’t even have anywhere to practice anymore.”

“Tom knows lots of places around the Castle,” Harry offers. “Nothing as good as the Room, mind, but surely something good enough for a little bit of spell-casting?”

Tom shrugs with an uncharacteristic flicker of open irritation. “Could work, I suppose. Though I doubt anywhere is truly safe.”

“Well, we have to try something, don’t we?”

“Hey,” Ron starts, voice breathy and low, “I’ve got an idea. There are some empty classrooms in the Dungeons, right?”

“And…?” Tom questions.

“Think about it. Umbridge’s twats aren’t going to bother patrolling around Slytherin, are they? A few of us could go with the Cloak and then sound-proof the walls.”

Hermione smiles, eyeing Ron with an impressed glint. “That’s not a bad idea. What about if I teach Tom and Luna in the dungeons? Then I can show the rest of you later in the boys’ dormitory.”

“Brilliant,” Harry remarks, nudging Tom with his shoulder. “Good to get back in the swing of things, yeah?”

Tom does not even bother to smile, but nods once, tensely, before dismissing himself to ward the classroom. His half-drunk tea and empty plate remain.

Harry, left to stare at the space he leaves behind, considers the brunt edges of the awkward exchange. The clipped responses, the bloodshot eyes, the slight hunch. This is it. This is Tom, as raw and open as his nature will ever allow.

 

*               *               *

 

Cold and cobwebbed, the abandoned dungeon classroom is as unsuited for Patronus casting as Tom is. Yes, he accepts himself for who he is, for all the little errors in his make. He does not bother with envying Granger for her bursts of light and silver wisps. He watches, unmoved, as the jolts arc overhead, curving and threading into a proud and squeaking animal. He can be friendly. He can clap.

“An otter,” Harry observes, reaching his hand forward into the flying mist. “You’re a genius, Hermione.”

“It took me a long time to perfect,” she qualifies, oh so modest, with that great, smug smirk of hers.

“Here, Tom,” she says, shifting the otter before him, “touch him. It should give you a good idea of what sort of memory you’ll need to summon.”

He stares at the creature. “I can feel it.”

“Really?” Lovegood asks. “Because you don’t seem very happy.”

Tom shakes his head, forcing his energy to rise, if only for a moment. “Just tired, is all.” He smiles. “It’s a lovely Patronus, Hermione. Very…bright.”

She laughs. “A bit on the nose, but I’ll take it. Now you three can try it. I seem to remember Harry had a good go of it back in Lupin’s class. Want to go first?”

“Sure.” With a lingering grin, he takes his stance, legs spread and knees bent. He performs the spell with some success—a wisp of gray. Tom needn’t wonder where Harry’s talent for light magic comes from. He can feel it bristling inside him, as if trapped in a box. Born in Harry is a purity that evades reason. How about that.

On his fifth, sixth, and seventh try, there is shape, something like a wing. Lovegood, Tom and Granger watch him as he attempts it again and again, for an eighth, ninth, tenth time, and on the eleventh incantation, from his bold flourish, a Patronus takes flight.

“Woah,” Harry breathes, the light of the bird glowing in his irises. “I can’t believe it.”

“Incredible, Harry!” shouts Hermione, clapping her hands. “It took me weeks to do this!”

“She’s very beautiful,” Lovegood notes, smiling up as it circles the room. “What do you think she is?”

"An eagle," Tom answers.

“Page 52, birds,” Hermione says as she thumbs through her book. “A witch or wizard who realises an eagle Patronus will be of strong mind and vision, with boundless courage and an unbreakable will. In magical lore, it is believed that the spirit of the eagle is most closely tied to the serpent, with whom he is locked in an eternal life-and-death struggle for the fate of humanity.”

As Harry’s eyes click to Tom, the Patronus disappears into a mist of light.

“Oh,” Lovegood says, “like in Aesop’s Fables.”

Harry palms his face. “How about you go for it next, Luna. I think I’m a little worn out.”

For some stint, perhaps half an hour or more, Granger coaches Lovegood through the steps, but Tom and Harry spend more time staring at each other than at Lovegood as her incorporeal wisps struggle to connect.

“Of all the animals,” Tom whispers to Harry, “of all the creatures —”

Harry’s nose blushes. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“— of all the possibilities.”

“Hey, look you two!” Hermione calls, pointing into the clouds of light. “I think that’s an ear.”

The vapors spread before either can properly look.

“A bunny’s ear,” Lovegood chirps, eyes especially bulbous “She’s lovely. I wonder what that could mean.”

As Granger opens the text again, Harry leans into Tom’s ear, where only he can hear him speak. “Listen to this. I bet you all of this is generic stuff, like horoscopes.”

“Luna, it’s perfect for you!” Granger squeals. “Rabbits represent timidity without cower and creativity without arrogance. Those possessing a rabbit Patronus are best characterized by their imagination and transient spirit.” She closes the book with a _whap.”_ With a bit more practice, you’ll have a full Patronus in no time.” Her grin turns to Tom. “Well, looks like it’s your time to shine. Pun intended.”

"Right."

For what is decisively the first time in his career of spell-casting, Tom is certain of failure before the gentle vibration of magic meets his fingertips. It is almost liberating. He swirls his wand with technical perfection. He incants without stutter. He reaches back to his most neutral of happy memories: his first glimpse of Hogwarts, of Diagon Alley, of him on the mountainside, cut and bruised and really there.

But nothing happens.

“Hmm.” Granger holds her index finger to her cheek. “You’ll need to pick a stronger memory than that.”

“Suggestions?” Tom inquires, half-smiling.

“I have a few go-to memories that always produce a corporeal Patronus,” Granger says. “One of them is meeting my mother’s family for the first time. Another one is learning that I’m a witch. Considering you’re a Muggle-born, too, that one should at least produce a spark.”

In Harry’s frown, Tom finds solace. There will be no more illusions, little lamb.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Once. Twice. Three times, four. Granger’s patience lasts until his twentieth attempt.

“That’s so odd,” she says. “I mean, no worries! I’m sure you’ll get it eventually.”

No doubt, she is pleased. What thoughts roam behind that wiry mess of hair? He can almost hear her voice in the back of his mind, mocking him: _No happy memories? That’s too bad. Who’s the cleverest Mudblood now?_

“I’ll practice it on my own.” He smiles. “Your instruction was more than adequate to get a feel for the spell, Hermione. Thank you.”   

“Oh, well, I’m happy to help you. Maybe you could return the favor sometime. I’m sure you’ve got a whole arsenal of spells that I don’t know.”

An understatement, spoken so innocently, yet so arrogantly. The wrench lodged in Tom’s gut now twists. “Yes, I would say it’s—”

“Hey, how about we meet up later, you guys?” Harry interrupts, unsheathing the metaphoric blade and coming to the rescue. A knight among men. Truly. “You two can take the Cloak.”

Their well-wishes follow them out the door. Tom does not lift his head until he is alone with Harry.

“My hero,” Tom mocks, soppy in jest. “My dear sweet eagle.”

“Come on, Tom. You know that all that spirit animal stuff is bollocks. You read into it what you wanted to.”

Tom’s smile falls, pulling into a straight line as he stands, inches broader and a full head taller. “Perhaps. But, thinking back, I’d say our tendency to dismiss odd coincidences has proven vain.”

“Alright,” Harry concedes. “You’ve got a point there. But, thinking  back, I’d also say our attempts to read into these odd coincidences has proven moot. It all comes back to the same bloody thing, doesn’t it?” He scratches at the back of his neck, arching his elbow high, robe slinking past a bicep, grown and rounded since Tom’s last sight of it.

“What would you like me to say?” Tom asks, too belligerent for his own good, much too irritated to stop himself. “That I’ve figured it all out?”

“No.” Harry shrugs. “Why should you have to do it all on your own?”

“Well,” Tom says, enunciating in light condescension, “I do not mean to sound rude or crass, nor do I mean to give the impression that I am without fault; I'm not. However, between us both, there is an unquestionable gap in understanding soul magic. I’ve spent the new year in a state of obsession. You haven’t even skimmed the introductory literature.”

The words do not shrink Harry. He shrugs again, unaffected. “What? I'm not going to deny it. You’re much smarter than I am, Tom. The only topic I’m certain I know more about than you is football, and it’d probably only take you a couple of weeks to outmatch my knowledge there.”

“You really think it’d take that long?”

“That was compliment. Don’t be a wanker about it.”

“A statement of fact is not a compliment.”

“It can be.” He gives a daring little grin. “For example, if you were to acknowledge my superior talent in Patronus casting, it would be both a statement of fact _and_ a compliment.”

“And also an act of self-harm.”

Without a moment's hesitation, they laugh in unison, and surprisingly, it feels good; natural. 

"Huh," Harry sighs. "I actually thought you’d be upset that I bettered you.”

“After all the time we’ve spent together, and you think I’ve learned nothing about you?”

“Well, no. You probably know me better than anyone else ever will. At least in some respects.”

“In _all_ respects,” Tom amends.

“Dunno about that. You probably don’t understand why I do half the things I do.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Tom tuts. “Bold claim. Name one thing you’ve done with unclear intentions that you think I’ve misunderstood.”

“Fine.” He looks away, thinking, then turns back with objective. “Why do you suppose I invited Hermione to teach us the Patronus Charm?”

Tom answers without pause. “To undermine me. You remembered I had no aptitude for the spell in class.”

“And why would I want to undermine you, exactly? What could I gain from it?”

“The upper-hand. We’ve just reconciled. You want to let me know that you won’t be as pliant as you were in the past."

“So,” Harry says slowly, as if his mind is trying to catch up, “you're saying I wanted to undermine you with humiliation to strengthen our relationship, is that right?”

“I don’t think you thought of it like that, but yes." The next statement, Tom does not intend to share, but in the odd comfort of the conversation, with the carelessness of a sore body, he has less instinct for tact than ever prior. "It’s quite normal for children of abuse to subconsciously manipulate relationships to their advantage.”

Harry's mouth falls open. "Oh, fuck off." And, for some reason, he laughs. "You're really touched if you think I'm going to let you project onto me like that."

Tom frowns. “What?”

“I asked Hermione to help us because I knew we could use her help. Because I knew you had trouble with the Charm. Because I knew there’d be Dementors here before nightfall.”

“Yes," Tom doubts, eyes rolling, "it sounds likely.”

“See? I was right. You don’t understand my motivations, Tom. Not at all. But I can see straight through you.” 

Tom’s tight jaw barely opens. “Sure you can.”

“Yeah, I can. You're obsessed with power, in any shape and any form you can seize it, and yeah, trust me, I know that on the surface, you think you’re aware of it, but deep down, you’re not. Your perspective is distorted.” He snorts and throws his hand in the air, in gesture. “I mean, Christ. Just have a look at yourself. You skipped class like it meant nothing. You lost at least a stone, maybe more. As soon as I wasn’t there for you to control, you had to compensate by obsessively regulating your own life. And you know? I wasn't going to bring your childhood into this, but since you are so eager to analyze mine, I suppose I should say it's really no surprise that a child raised in care would be so fixated on taking control, is it?"

Merlin. What an onslaught.

There is a pause, empty and long, before Tom finally speaks, as carefully and softly as one asks forgiveness. “I see. And am I wrong for it? For seeking control?”

Harry blinks. “Well, er… yeah? Obviously.”

“Am I really?”

“Why else would I… Why else would I say all that? I mean, it’s not like I just, just came up with that on the spot! I’ve been…”

"Rehearsing it?" Tom asks, giddiness rising in him. "If that's so, then there must be more where that came from. I do wonder what else Dr. Freud has in store."

"No," Harry denies, going red in the cheeks. "I didn't  _rehearse_ it. I've been thinking about it, about how rotten people go when all they care about is power. I don't want that for you. It's not right."

"How do you suppose?"

He scowls. "Because it's not good."

Oh, he does have a way with words. Tom restrains the twitch of a smile, turning it to a pout. “Why?”

“Why?” Harry repeats. “Because you think you’re making yourself stronger but all you’ve done is hurt yourself.”

“I’m no masochist, Harry.”

“Maybe not,” he says briskly. “But you obviously don’t mind compromising a bit of comfort, do you?”

“Gratefully, I can’t say I do. Nor do you. However, before I stray too far from the point, let me be clear: It doesn’t make me wrong to see the world differently than you see it. You admit your intelligence is inferior to my own, so why can’t you consider that maybe I am the one who is right, and you are the one who is wrong?”

“Because,” Harry shakes his head with eyes intent, staring straight into Tom’s as he steps forward, within heat’s reach, “I can cast a Patronus and you can’t. Not even a wisp. Not even a tiny bit of smoke.”

Lovely as Harry is, in anger and in severity, the discussion is so heated and yet so meaningless. So fleeting. There is no real horror left between them. Nothing like before. Tom releases his breath in protracted exhalation, bating the rise of something long denied. The timing is off. The moment is inopportune. He knows this and he ignores it, and bends his neck so that their lips graze, just enough for a taste of his essence. It roves his skin like an electric current.

"Maybe I just don't have it in me."

He kisses him again. This time, it lasts longer, giving lightening time to settle, warming each nerve ending, every fiber within reach.

“I missed it.”

“Yeah.” Harry steps back, the strength and poise of his performance fading, leaving him alone to stare. “I missed you, too.”

“Then stop challenging me,” Tom beckons, kind but stern. “Lay these silly thoughts to waste. Things can be as they were.”

“No,” he says in a rasp beneath his breath. “They can't. Not unless you learn it.”

“Learn what? The Patronus Charm?”

“Yeah. The Patronus Charm.”

 

*               *               *

 

The clock hits eight. One hour more, and that will be that.

Stowed away are his lifelong accomplishments—many certificates, golden ornaments inlaid with his name, his first feature piece in _Dark Defence Monthly_ , his many professional correspondences with their world’s best and brightest minds. And beneath all this, signs of his true accomplishment: the paper flesh of student letters, poor calligraphy and brash overstated gratitude only youth can birth so kindly. He’s seen so few of these students in the years after their graduations, but, sentimental to his core, he can’t quite let them go.

He lights a Peruvian Pixie Cigar and inhales, sucking back the glisten with expert tolerance. Such a luxury is unknown to most wizards. It certainly would be to him if not for the Castle and her many gracious years. No, he cannot complain. He is no different than his predecessors. Academics are forever the bitch of those unburdened by concerns of truth, those who are not adjusted to the bleak cruelties of injustice, but who cause them all the same.

A parcel of old photographs, wrapped in twine, sit on his countertop in wait of his owl. She’ll like the change in scenery. James is very good with animals, very good with all things that are helpless and in need of affection. Remus has him, too, to thank the Castle for. Without James, he would have no Sirius, no Lily, maybe no Nymphadora. But then, without Dumbledore, he would have no Castle, no love, no light, no life.

“Cheers,” he mutters, raising his dwindling cigar to the empty air, suffering the quiet with hollow remembrance. Until the silence is broken by three successive knocks.

He stiffs the cigar end into his desk and saunters a slower pace forward, savoring this, his very last visit from guests. “Come in.”

After a moment’s shuffle, the thick, wooden door glides over stone. Harry is first through the door, his face in twisted determination, and Tom steps behind, modest and shy and without swagger, suspending Remus's impulse to see James and Sirius in their shadows.

“I’m guessing you two haven’t come only for a small chat. Is that right?” His pleasant voice is no doubt betrayed by his weary frown.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Harry says lowly. “The Dementors have arrived.”

“Ah.” He rakes their features, all pale and frightened, and wonders briefly if he should bring them, too. They are not his children, he knows, but having none with his blood, their adolescent gazes render him paternal. “Would you care for a bit of chocolate?”

“Thank you, but no,” Harry says. “We’re actually looking for a more permanent form of protection. We’d like you to teach us to cast the Patronus Charm.”

“Not us,” Tom says. “Me. Harry has already cast a full-fledged Patronus. I require more assistance.”

“Have you?” Remus inquires, his smile genuine. “What form did it take, may I ask?”

“An eagle, sir.”

“That’s quite impressive, Harry, though I can’t say I’m surprised. You show exceptional natural talent for Defence. As do you, Tom. In time, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t be of any assistance in the coming weeks.” He sighs and gestures at his gold-latched chest. “This is my last night at Hogwarts. In fact, I was just packing.”

“What? She’s had you sacked?”

Remus smiles sadly. “Of course she has, Harry. First to go are the creatures and half-breeds. Flitwick and Hagrid left the Castle last night.”

“No,” Harry whispers. 

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Tom says gently, bowing his head. “This is our fault.”

Remus shakes his head. “It was bound to happen eventually. The woman hates werewolves, would give anything to see us all slaughtered. It’s my own fault for sticking around as long as I have. Can’t wait to see what’s on the next _Prophet_ …” He laughs humorlessly. _“Dumbledore Exposed: Werewolf, Goblin, and Giant Expelled from Hogwarts Faculty._ ”

“It's not fair," Harry says, shades of James all over.

“It’s old prejudice,” Remus explains bitterly. “Ask those closest to you what they believe of me when the headlines betray my secret, even those who champion the cause of Muggle-borns. Your father and godfather are uncommonly kind. Most witches and wizards are not.”

“That’s not true. They'll defend you as I do."

“It is true!” Remus snaps before his age can reach his temper. He sighs and waves his hands in apology. “You’re both good kids, and I’m proud of what you did in Dumbledore’s name, but it’s over now. Don't defend me where her ears can hear. If you go on plotting, the next punishment won’t be so lenient. I can guarantee it.”

“But we can’t just sit around doing nothing,” Harry protests. “We can’t let her win.”

“There will be no winners or losers, Harry. Eliminate any hopes you have of glory or triumph.”

His eyes move up to Tom, who, though taller than Remus is now, still reminds of the first-year no higher than chest.

“This goes for you as well. This summer, Dumbledore will approach both of you with an invitation to join the Order. Then, on _his_ orders, you’ll have your chance to fight back. But until then, you are students and your only priority should be turning in essays and —” he turns to Tom “—showing up to class. Lives are a stake, boys. Playtime is over.” 

Harry snorts in indignation. “We weren’t just playing around, you know. We were trying to make a difference.”

“Don’t be daft.” Tom warns, his hand cupping over Harry’s shoulder. “You know he’s right.”

“I understand that you’re upset,” Remus consoles. “But you have to trust me on this. Your parents cherish you. Don’t let them down by getting yourself into stupid trouble. Your father has enough on his plate as it is.”

Harry blenches at the mention of his father. “I know he does.”

“Then stay safe. If not for your own sake, then for his.”

“But what about the trial next week? You were supposed to take me. How will I get there now?”

“Forgive me, Harry, but I don’t think it’s wise for you to go at all. Your presence could easily agitate the Wizengamot. It’s bad enough that Dumbledore won’t be there on James’s behalf.”

“So, what? Am I really supposed to learn about what happens just by reading the bloody _Prophet_?”

“I’ll write to you as soon as I can,” Remus assures. “I know matters seem grim at the moment, but please, as best as you can, try to stay optimistic. James has a lot of people on his side, a lot of established, powerful wizards. What he needs from you now is for you to be as boring as you can possibly manage.”

“I get it,” Harry mutters. “I’ll behave.”

“Good,” Lupin says, softening from the dour of authority. “Your patience will be quite necessary in the coming weeks. Professor Flitwick's replacement shouldn’t be a problem. Mine, however…”

“What? Are they going to be a problem?”

“Let’s just say, he’s going to be a challenge.”

The two look between each other with concerned scowls but Remus says no more.

Whether they will choose to fight or comply, he cannot know. He can only guess in the privacy of silence, because voicing such things to James and Lily would only cause them anguish and he, the werewolf monster of lore, mourns too deeply for his lost innocence to steal what little is left in those he loves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it took too long, but here it is. We're fast approaching the end of Part I! Three or four more chapters left, I think. Then starts Part II, which I'm very much looking forward to writing.
> 
> Don't forget Tomarry Big Bang is among us. Feel free to rec your fic in the comments, if you want to. Browsing the tag is something I've got lazy at over the years, so I appreciate recs. (don't be shy!)


	9. Pressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: in this chapter there are references to rape and incest (not explicit)

White mist drifts the skyline, veiling the dawn and the highlands. Past the clouds, where the birds once soared, dark-cloaked creatures glide in loops, rounding the parameters in eerie repetition.

The cold spreads bumps across Harry’s bare legs. He has too much pride to admit that he can’t manage a Warming Charm on his own as Ron layers himself. Last time he tried to do the same, his temperature rose so high, he passed out and awoke minutes later with Flitwick’s sloping nose nearly poking him in the eye.

“Lovely creatures, those. Don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“Hmph.” Harry bends down and lays his palms flat on grass, bouncing into the stretch, keeping his body warm. “I’ll bet even Malfoy wrote home to mummy once he got a proper look at them.”

Ron follows Harry down, lunging. “Pictured him more of a daddy’s boy, personally.”

Not according to Tom. What he said makes Harry smile in recollection.

“There was a rumor in Slytherin a few years back. Something about Malfoy’s mum breastfeeding him until he was seven.”

“Huh. So that's what went wrong with him.”

They start by the Great Lake and run laps round the water. Harry forces his attention outward, to the sensations surrounding him: the slate frost over the grass; the small flakes of ice he inhales, that sting his lungs; the lanky sprinting of Ron, who, prone to laziness, pronates and slacks at the shoulders. He keeps his mind here as best he can, speeding when the unpleasant thoughts begin to catch up. Each time he catches sight of the black fabric, or a particularly brisk chill, he can’t help but wonder… how does Azkaban feel?

He knows what others say about it. Yesterday when he and Hermione taught the Gryffindor sixth-years how to cast a Patronus, some vague anecdotes surfaced. Seamus’s uncle and cousin both served short stints and were apparently never the same after. One of the blokes even claimed that a Dementor made him strip to his pants (to Harry's great relief, Hermione later clarified that this was quite impossible, as Dementors can neither speak nor hear). Once their slowest learner, Neville, finally managed himself a shuddering little wisp, Harry was so tense, he nearly bolted to meet Tom in the library.

But he, too, looked quite overwhelmed. He was reading in front of a broad desk, his body sloped over, his eyes peering down at the pages like he was waiting to jump inside. Upon noticing Harry, his lips didn’t move but his eyes brightened, and Harry was certain that the smooth and subtle flash of comfort he felt was not an emotion of his own.

This revision session was as grueling and tedious as usual. Tom forced him to copy written incantations and to reread dreary passages, even when Harry protested that he understood them the first time through. Sometime after the fourth hour had passed, Harry was mutinously bored and thinking up his best excuse for why neither should go on reading.

That was when the sudden freeze blew past. Behind him and Tom, a Dementor had crept and was roving slowly. Harry had no time to complain. Tom snapped his hand around Harry’s wrist and marched them straight to the corridor, carelessly levitating their belongings and leaving a trail of ink that would surely make Madam Pince faint.

Afterward Tom acted as if it was for Harry’s protection, and Harry played along, knowing how brittle his pride can be. The obvious truth was a somewhat jarring one. Tom, who barely seems to understand why people _should_ avoid things, was absolutely and irrefutably something he would never admit to being: afraid.

After their fifth lap, Harry’s so immersed in this thought, he barely sees Ron waving his hand, ushering him to convene beneath an oak.

“Look over there,” Ron says, pointing. “At the gate. Who d’you reckon that lot is?”

Harry adjusts his spectacles and squints. A group of brightly robed figures walk toward the Hogwarts entrance, helmed by a woman clad in furry magenta. In their hands are long, skinny briefcases and crank-wound cameras, the kind wizards use to capture moving photographs. Midway down the road they are met by Umbridge. Her arms stretch wide for the leading woman in an uncharacteristic moment of enthusiasm. For the others, she grants only a curt nod before turning toward the Castle.

“Lupin’s replacement?” Ron suggests.

“Can’t be. Professor McGonagall said he won’t arrive for another two days. Besides, look at their equipment. They must be with the media.”

“The media? Why? Do you think they’re doing something on Umbridge?”

For a long moment, Harry stares at the eccentric group, watching until the last of them has strut in with a prissy sway of her hips. 

“Hey, Ron? I need to ask you a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“If it ever gets down to it, and you’re asked to denounce me, or even Tom, then I want you to do it. Alright?”

The words feel presumptuous. Maybe he takes their friendship too seriously and it’s stupid to imagine that Ron would ever do such a thing for him in the first place. Before Harry can fully feel the shame of this fear, however, he is feeling something else: a sharp jab in his arm where Ron’s elbow digs in.

“Dickhead.”

“I’m serious, Ron,” Harry insists, trying to subdue the swell of discomfort that rises inside him. “I need you to promise me.”

“Listen, mate,” Ron says as he cranes his long neck, catching Harry’s eyes. “I’m not an idiot. I see how you and Riddle are. You think you’re the only ones who are really in this thing.”

“No, Ron,” Harry denies, shaking his head, “I swear that’s not it.”

“It sort of is, isn’t it?" Ron looks both ways before leaning in close. “Look, my whole family is with the Order. Just like yours. And next year, when you and Hermione and Riddle won’t be allowed back, I’ll be here.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nonplussed. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Then you should know what I’m prepared to do. You stood before the Minister, the world’s greatest Legilimens, and lied when you could’ve tried to save your own neck… It didn’t work, mind, but you still tried it. And Riddle told everyone what he’d done when Umbridge was prepared to let everyone think no Slytherins took part.” He lifts his orange brows high. “If I risk myself to protect you two prats, or anyone else, it’ll be because I’ve chosen to do it, alright?”

Harry goes still but for the slightest nod.

“Good. Now that we’ve settled that rubbish, let’s go tuck in. I’m bloody starving.”

 

*               *               *

 

_Riddle:_

_Your retelling of “The Plight of Itys” was telling. Truly it was._

_You see, I read it only hours after a visit from Lily herself. She came to seek my counsel. We discussed her research, her fears, her uncertain future, and, at some point, as you can imagine, we stumbled onto the topic of the precious boy you share in common. She loves him very much. Much more than you do. For him, she would sacrifice her life, as she tried to do once before, when you were still soiling your nappies._

_This is why I’m so fascinated by your decision to mention Itys. I suspect you do not know the truth behind the tale. Few wizards do._

_The fair maiden of the fens was not an anonymous witch. She was Sedley Slytherin, and she was among the last of Salazar’s name. Her father, Stanbury Slytherin, became solely responsible for the propagation of his noble lineage after he lost his six brothers to the War of Seven Dragons._

_Stanbury married the pure-blood his father arranged and consummated that same night, eager to fill his wife with as many sons as she could bear. However, whether by coincidence or by design, Stanbury failed his forbearers. Year after year for over a decade, he fathered only daughters. It was said his sanity slipped more with each birth. And indeed, it must have. On the day that his thirteenth daughter was born, his eldest daughter, Sedley, had her first bleed._

_I do not believe I need be explicit about what happened next._

_Once Stanbury’s wife discovered what he did, she attempted to kill Sedley with a dagger laced with snake’s venom. It was not known then that Parselmouths are invulnerable to venom, and this mistake proved a critical error. Stanbury’s wife pierced their pregnant daughter in the back with killer intent. It was the last thing she ever did. Sedley dragged her mother to the snake pit in their garden and fled, never again to return. It was only by letter that she confessed what had happened._

_Some of her sisters fled, too, and renounced their heritage. Those that stayed bore their father’s crooked, inept infants, none of whom lived to see past childhood._

_Meanwhile, Sedley raised her son, Itys, as any mother would raise a child. Itys was as inbred and deformed as his cousins, and lacked the intellectual faculties necessary to properly control his magic. Still, despite what is said in popular retellings, all evidence hints that Sedley loved him all the same. This is where the legend comes in. One day, alone in the woods, Itys accidentally set himself aflame and nearly died of his wounds. Desperate to save her only son, Sedley weaned Itys on unicorn’s blood until his wounds healed. Both were cursed to half-lives from that day forth._

_But it took many years for the curse to fully take effect. Sedley went north to Scotland and mixed Slytherin’s blood with the noble line of Peverell before the curse fully corroded her mind. Her firstborn Peverell son was fully grown when she and Itys left for the south. They returned to find Stanbury in their ancestral home and, in one final act of vengeance, cannibalized his live flesh._

_You may wonder why I bother correcting you with such a lengthy tale. I suppose there are two reasons._

_The first is that I would like to illustrate the frailty of pure-blood supremacy. This story was likely altered from its original form because it was once taboo to besmirch the most noble of pure-blood names. Supremacists refuse to admit that their history is one of insanity and cruelty, and displace all human blame onto our non-magical counterparts. Indeed, in some retellings, Sedley was an embittered Squib and her rapist was a Muggle._

_I know that you, a Muggle-raised, do not require schooling on the idiocy of the ideology. However, it may allow you some comfort to be reminded that, in the end, things that are frail, do not last.._

_Which brings me to the second reason I write this to you. However ungrateful and insufferable you are, you are a child, and children should be forgiven when the root of bad behavior is not malice, but ignorance. You claim there is no such thing as good and evil. You boast that your boundaries will not be drawn by superstition. This is all quite ignorant._

_Whether good and evil are materially real does not matter. Good begets good. Bad begets bad. And superstition, even in its crudest form, informs us about the potential harms of trials we ourselves have not yet tested._

_You and your friends have put one year’s worth of careful planning into jeopardy. I could have mocked you or condemned you, but instead, I’ve chosen to write this._

_Now tell me what you’ve learned._

_Signed,_

_S. Snape_

*               *               *

 

White porcelain clots red at the sink drain. Tom scours it with his blood-stained fingernails as the cold water sprays over his clammy skin.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

“Meat is meat,” Tom says simply. His disgust is well-hidden by his smile.

Nott, however, is visibly shaken. As he should be. He bounces the uneaten half of the bugbear heart in his hand, consternation in his frown. “I suppose so. I do still wonder if there wasn’t a better option.”

Tom cranks the faucet off. A thin line of blood remains congealed inside the crevice. “I made myself ill. It was my own fault. For it, I paid the price, and now my nutrition will improve. Simple as that.” He casts himself a gauntlet of water and drinks it slowly, enjoying the cool feel, ebbing down the already dwindling nausea.

“This method was quite commonly used at St. Mungo’s before the preservationists stepped in.”

“Yes, I see,” Nott says. He uses his wand to wrap the heart in spellophane. “But then, aren’t you friends now with that Mudblood, Granger? I seem to recall her spending half of Year Five screeching about the wellness of house-elves. Not sure she’d take kindly to the needless mutilation of an endangered species.”

Tom smirks at Nott as he summons his toothbrush. “You’ve always held a special hatred for her. You can’t deny it smacks of unrequited affection.”

“Please,” he drawls. “Even as far as Mudbloods go, she’s no looker. And do not especially dislike her. I dislike her type.”

Tom spits into the sink. “Yes, you dislike Mudbloods and mudwallowers alike. I must wonder what makes me so special.”

“I have never given much thought to slights against your heritage, seeing as you don’t know yourself.” He tilts his head suspiciously. “Or do you?”

“Would it change your opinion of me?”

Nott does not answer the question, at least not immediately. He returns back to the dorm and dresses by Tom’s side, making small talk about the latest bit of gossip he heard circulating the Common Room. It’s drivel, all of it. Tom lets him go on and half-listens to the brainless rot. He must be careful with his next words, so he plots them delicately.

“…and Crabbe was caught with his cock out in Remedial Charms, or so Davis says…”

Nott is a laboring little beast, burying himself ever deeper beneath the delusion that this, their friendship, is as unconditional on Tom’s part as it is his own. Tom does like Nott, mind. He’s a good friend, a clever wizard. But Tom is not so foolish to believe that goodness or cleverness warrant trust; he trusts one, and one alone. He adjusts his neck and takes a deep breath. And smiles.

“Theodore.”

From his knee, Nott stares up, shoelaces still in hand. “Yes?”

“Earlier, you did not answer my question,” Tom says carefully. “I prefer it when my questions are answered.”

“Which question?”

“I asked you if my blood status would change your opinion of me.”

“Why are you so bothered about it?”

“Because,” Tom says slowly, eyes narrowing, “I found my Muggle father during the break. Nasty man. Quite poor. My mother was just the same.”

“Huh. That’s a pity.”

“So,” Tom says crisply, “you do care.”

Nott gathers his rucksack around his shoulder. “I was obviously baiting you. I couldn’t give a damn what your parents were. Now would you get your things? We only have ten minutes before class starts.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Tom say quietly. Nott nods and leaves, his lingering smile showing that he does indeed consider this a small victory.

Fool.

From beneath his pillow, Tom retrieves Snape’s letter and tucks it into the middle of _Magick Moste Evil_ for safekeeping.

Mr. Snape: another fool.

The Common Room is empty. Tom peers around cautiously as he pads through. Since his public betrayal, he has not meandered too long where his housemates lurk. As a small indulgence, he lets his gaze linger on the great portrait of Salazar Slytherin, lightly twisting the Peverell ring up to his knuckle. His locket stays safely locked in his trunk. Perhaps it is time for him to make good use of it again. So unexpectedly, all of the little pieces have, at last, come within reach. What’s left is their arrangement… Nott. Granger. Malfoy. His heritage, his Harry. Umbridge and all her futile ambitions…

When Tom leaves behind his painted ancestor, he raises his defense to higher alert, braced for whatever nuisance may await him in the corridor. There could be a Dementor, or Malfoy, or even one of his scorned admirers.

What he does not expect to see is the heavy-jawed woman who greets him first with a blinding white flash.

 

*               *               *

 

“Severus, Sirius, please.” With his narrow, sky-blue eyes, Dumbledore sweeps his gaze over the two men, a very teacher-like firmness about him. “Once the clouds have cleared and our tribulations have passed, I shall greatly encourage the expression of your most violent and unforgiving invectives. Until then, I must ask that you restrain your mutual contempt.”

James sips mulishly from his coffee mug and gives Sirius a nod of loyalty from across the round table. To his left, his traitor wife, Lily, makes a show of rolling her eyes.

“I honestly don’t know how it’s possible that you lot are less mature than when we left Hogwarts.”

“He bloody started it,” Sirius grumbles obstinately. “None of us could have guessed at what Pettigrew was up to. What I find curious is that the Minister’s favorite little Unspeakable had no knowledge of the affiliation.”

Snape looks directly into Sirius’s glower. His black eyes are cold and lifeless but the thin-lipped smirk says it all; he’s happy about this. And by the growing look of outrage on Sirius’s face, he realizes it too. James grips the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“Sirius, mate… just drop it.” He turns to the smug bastard, and is frank in expression. “Snape, I know you still hold some things from the past against me. Fine. I can’t change what happened then. But I have a family to protect. They need me to get out of this alive.”

Relishing the moment, Snape tilts up his head and leans back, triumphant. “I accept the mission, Dumbledore, on the condition that I am excused from any further involvement in the quest you’ve given Crouch. Diggory’s son is a viable replacement.”

“Very well, Severus. I shall abide your request.”

James shares a grimace with Sirius, who has locked his jaw in an effort to contain another outburst.

“Goddamnit, Snape. You great coward,” grumbles Remus unexpectedly. It quickly wipes the self-satisfaction off Snape’s greasy mug. “Cedric Diggory is barely of age.”

“He is twenty, I believe,” Snape says with indifference. “And I hardly think a Triwizard Tournament Champion is too delicate for a bit of low-risk surveillance.”

“Indeed,” says Dumbledore. “If I did not think Cedric capable, I would not ask it of him.” His twinkling gaze softens. “I know it is hard for you, Remus, having taught the boy. When I look at each of you, I’m filled with a similar mourning. But let us not dwell on that which cannot be changed. We have, I think, a much more important matter to discuss.”

 

-

 

“Snotty, swotty Snivellus has done it again,” Sirius groans hours later as they lounge in James’s living room, the two of them sharing a liter of ale. _“I’m much too scared of a little bit of snooping, my greasy nose might drip a trail through the Ministry … oh, I know! Let’s give it to the child instead!_ ”

“It’s just as well. Don’t know that he has much use outside of a laboratory, the skinny, slimy git.”

“Will you two just shut up already?” Lily snaps from behind the _Prophet._

“Why?” Sirius asks. “You’ve had enough time to read that rubbish ten times over. Or is it because you don’t want us insulting your precious little friend?”

“Say what you want about Severus,” she mutters irritably. “I really have no interest in your childish arguments. And I have finished the article, thanks.”

“Then why are you looking at it?” James questions, feeling irritable himself. The bold headline – _DUMBLEDORE OUSTED_ – is not what he considers a pleasant backdrop to their conversation.

She cleanly sets the paper to her side. “I’m trying to think things through, alright? You heard what Remus said. They’re not going to directly report on student involvement in Dumbledore’s Army… that is, unless…”

“Unless what?” Sirius asks coolly. “Unless they want to upset half the Ministry with news that their precious kiddos joined a demob?”

“ _Unless_ ,” Lily says, emphasizing her impatience, “they convince the kids to speak about it themselves. If you weren’t so up your own arses about your feud with Severus, he probably would have told you himself that Judy Dawlish was tasked with breaking the jinx on the parchment the children signed. They wouldn’t have done that if they didn’t want them talking.”

“Oh,” Sirius waves his hand dismissively, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Lily. I was in the Leaky Cauldron yesterday and I can guarantee you, nobody’s talking about the students, not with Dumbledore on the run.”

“Not yet,” Lily says smartly. “But they will be talking. Do you have any idea, the lengths we had to go through to prevent the press from getting to us last summer? We warded our house. We rerouted mail. For Merlin’s sake, Sirius, we took Harry to get his wand on the day England played Wales. He doesn’t even have any clue how sought after he is.”

“What about at Hogwarts?” Sirius questions. “Surely you couldn’t keep the press from him there.”

“We did,” James says gravely. “We had an agreement with Dumbledore. Only Lily and I could write him. All other posts were trashed.”

“Exactly,” Lily says. “And now that Dumbledore is gone, what do you think’s going to happen? A national icon committed treason. Now, everyone’s interest is piqued, but in a month? Who will care? There will be nothing to report on, except for alleged sightings and rumors and all that bunk. You two are distinguished Aurors, clever men. What would you do if you were in the Minister’s position?”

James’s heart sinks.

“We need to get Harry out of there. Now. Sirius and I know all the passageways. We can Apparate to Hogsmeade tonight.”

“Yes, yes,” Sirius agrees, nodding aggressively. “I can go in as Padfoot and sneak into the dormitory. Harry will recognize me, he’ll know what —”

“You are _not_ sneaking Harry out!” Lily barks. “For heaven’s sake! Have you two gone mad? How do you think that would look? The son of James Potter, treasonous Auror, disappearing from Hogwarts on the week of his father’s trial.”

“We can all go into hiding,” James bargains furiously.

“That’s not Dumbledore’s plan, James.”

“Who cares about Dumbledore? It’s James’s manor,” Sirius reminds brutally.

“I don’t care,” Lily grinds out, teeth barring, her magic emitting static in the air around. “You are not risking our son’s life for the sake of a harebrained, ill-plotted rescue attempt. If there comes a time when we need to get him out of Hogwarts, we will do it cautiously and safely in consultation with Dumbledore. Am I understood?”

On a horrid, nasty impulse, with all his strength, James pitches his glass mug. Thick glass shards bounce off the wall, right next to a portrait of his parents, whose black-and-white likeness gasp and admonish him. To the right of their picture is one of the last photos ever taken of their dead child. He opens his bright green eyes and bawls.

“If it’s any consolation,” says Sirius, attempting to make his tone frivolous and airy, “I snuck a dungbomb into Snape’s briefcase when he wasn’t looking. A massive one. He’ll stink for weeks. I just thought you should know.”

 

*               *               *

 

“Fire Protection Potions are a most interesting topic, yes, and not at all juvenile for my N.E.W.T. students, not at all. You see, children, it may be quite easy to brew, what with it having only three ingredients, but the underlying theory of how the Salamander blood reacts when overheated is a fascinating example of the seven exceptions to Umpkin’s Law.”

Watching Professor Slughorn write said seven exceptions is a test of personal will-power. Harry had gotten rather comfortable with his habit of leaving class midway for a generous break. Probably wouldn’t be a good idea to keep up that habit now. He fidgets with the spine of his diary and occasionally peeks Tom’s way; he hasn’t lifted his head from rigorous notetaking since he arrived, possibly to make up for the fact that he was some twenty minutes late. Harry looks at his own empty parchment and sighs.

“— and finally, the seventh exception. Anyone know what that is?” Professor Slughorn peers over the students with a desperate ogle. With Tom occupied there is only one other student who could (or would) reliably answer aloud. However, with a glance over his shoulder, Harry realizes that her seat is empty for the first time this year.

“Anyone… Anyone… Oh, Tom! Do I see a hand?”

Tom halts his furious scribbling and glances up, appearing dazed. His hand was decisively on his desk. “Sorry?”

“I’ve asked for the seventh exception to Umpkin’s Law.”

“Ah. I believe it’s Porlock piss, sir.”

Professor Slughorn’s round face goes a sweaty red as the students break into fits of giggles. “Er, yes. Porlock urine, very good.” He chalks it on the blackboard with swift curlicue letters.

Harry nudges his leg against Tom’s, and whispers, “Seriously?”

But Tom gets back to writing his treatise just as soon as Professor Slughorn starts going on about a hypothetical eighth exception. Harry weds his attention to the trio of flies buzzing around the bin until class is dismissed.

“OK,” Harry starts, leaning into Tom’s space as he carefully packs his bag, “I know you’re up to something, scribbling away like that. Please tell me it’s not something that’s going to upset me.”

Tom plucks one sheet of parchment from his things. “This is for you. Try to memorize it as best you can before we leave.”

Harry takes the page and quickly reads the familiar script: _‘[on James] I am not interested in discussing the details of my father’s trial, other than to say that I defend his innocence whole-heartedly. [on Dumbledore] I hope you’ll understand that all of us here at Hogwarts are a bit confused about what exactly happened. [on Lupin] I don’t know much about werewolves but I think Professor Lupin was a great instructor, and I hope this can be a chance for him to receive the treatment he needs.’_

“What’s this rubbish about?”

“There’s a woman here from the _Prophet_. She ambushed me as I was on my way to class. I didn’t answer any of her questions but I’m quite certain she already knows more than her share.”

“Oh, trust me, Riddle. Rita Skeeter knows all.”

Malfoy stands before them with his arms crossed and his smile exultant.

“Does she?” Tom asks dully. “Quite surprising. She didn’t exactly seem too cerebral, if I’m honest.”

“Cerebral? No. I wouldn’t say she’s that. Her intelligence is more, ah, _interpersonal_. But don’t worry, Riddle. I told her not to bother too long with you. We all know that Potter’s name is where the money is.”

“What are you still doing here, Draco?” Professor Slughorn makes a shooing motion with his hands. “I’ve dismissed you all.”

“I was just leaving.” Malfoy leaves with this, moving on with slow, deliberate steps. Professor Slughorn shakes his head and bellows a long, laboring sigh, then shuffles back to his desk.

“You know boys, when I was your age, my only care in this world was making first lead in the Froggy Choir. It seems times have changed… but then I guess times are always changing…Well at any rate, I’d advise you to stay as far from Miss Rita Skeeter as wizardly possible! Taught her myself. Always could spin a tale, that one.”

“Thank you, sir. We appreciate your advice,” Tom says, tipping his head in respect. “Unfortunately I think it matters rather little how much we interact with the _Prophet_. They’re not after the truth.”

“Right,” Harry mutters. “They’re after a story.” He crinkles Tom’s parchment and stuffs it in his robe pocket. “Well they won’t be getting one from me.”

 

-

 

These boldly spoken words come back to haunt Harry.

It starts with the unexpected flashes that hit him and Tom the very second they leave Slughorn’s. The rapid burst of light stun Harry in place. Tom’s whispered warning to remain calm is all that grounds him through the dreamlike haze of camera clicks and shouted provocations:

“Harry! Harry Potter!”

“Give us a smile!”

“How does it feel being the first known Universe Hopper of the century?”

“Can you tell us about your involvement with Dumbledore’s Army?”

Only on the second floor, when Professor McGonagall steps in in their defense, are they able to shake the flock of pasty-faced, overdone photographers.

“This is a school, for Merlin’s sake! One of the finest in the world!”

Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall cannot protect everyone. Throughout the day, Harry is cornered by friends and D.A. members, from Finch-Fletchley to Chang to Ginny Weasley, all of whom claim to have been pestered for details about the elusive Harry James Potter. Ginny’s some comfort (“I told them you’re a time-travel who came back to cure Dragon Pox”) but Finch-Fletchley is less so (“Well, I let them know that you’re proud to be a former Muggle! To hell with the pure-bloods!). The worst of it all comes with Hermione when, midday, she bursts into the boys' dormitory with a resonant groan.

“You won’t believe what that vile – wait, what are you doing here?” Hermione blinks and peers over the group of one-too-many: each of Harry’s roommates and, unexpectedly, Tom, sitting on the floor with his back against a bedpost. He lifts the Invisibility Cloak for her to see.

“Why weren’t you in class today?” Ron asks.

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss. It’s about that reporter woman. That _Rita Skeeter_.” She pronounces the name with a slow, disgusted drawl. “I hate her!”

“Don’t worry, Mione,” Ron says sympathetically. “She got the lot of us too. Everyone except Harry.”

“Well, it’s only a matter of time.” She plops beside Harry. Her hands grip her knees and she leans in with a deep frown. “She took me first thing in the morning. Pulled me into a bloody broom closet and let that quill of hers go wild. First she asked me about who I am, how I know Harry, what I know about Harry. I barely had time to answer any of that before she started spinning my words out of context.”

“And what did you tell her?” Harry asks.

“I don’t even remember. She was asking me all sorts of ridiculous questions – what you like to do, who you’re dating. You would think the Ministry would be after a bit about Dumbledore or something but it didn’t feel that way at all. That’s why I skipped class. I went to the archives to find anything and everything written by Rita Skeeter.”

She digs through her rucksack and shimmies out a crinkled _Daily Prophet_. She folds back the pages to its midsection, to a small headline that reads: _How Warbeck REALLY Keeps the Pounds Off_ _by Rita Skeeter._ “See this? This is the kind of rubbish she puts out. She’s not a journalist at all. She’s a gossip columnist.”

Harry stares at Hermione, his mouth parting dumbly. “What? So you think she’s trying to make me out to be some sort of celebrity?”

“You already are a celebrity,” Tom says quietly. “And now that there’s no one here to protect you, the Ministry can craft your celebrity image to look however it wants.”

“Woah,” says Seamus. “This is mental. You think there’s any way we can stop her, Riddle?”

“Stop her? No, I don’t think so. Even without interviewing Harry, she likely has enough information to fill a front page spread. What we need to do is feed her what she wants to hear. Give her a good story to run.”

Harry scowls at the suggestion. “How can you say that? We have no idea what kind of things she’s going to say about us all. When she comes up to me, I’ll just tell her to piss off.”

“Yes. Very clever idea, that,” Tom says with haughty affect. “It was on a cool March evening that Harry Potter, the infamous Universe Hopper, proved himself to be a stoic and uncompromising. What do you think he’s hiding? Could it be that he’s plotting against the Minister?”

“Fine. I won’t tell her to piss off. I’ll just tell her that I’m not open for comments at this time.”

“It won’t work,” Hermione says sternly. “She’s a provocateur. The more your reject her, the crazier the claims she’ll use to smear you. You need to be candid and likable without saying too much.”

“But you can’t be a mystery either,” Tom qualifies. “The more mysterious you are, the more the public will try to pry in, figure out what’s happening. Use the script I wrote for you when those specific questions emerge. When she moves onto another topic, subvert her. Talk about how ordinary you are. How poor your marks are. Make it seem like the public is wasting their time with you.”

From the corner of the room comes a loud snort. Dean, who had been dutifully polishing his football, tosses it playfully at Tom. Tom suspends its speed and catches it, and frowns.

“That’s rich, Riddle. Harry could be the wizarding equivalent of David Cameron and it wouldn’t matter. There’s no way the public’s gonna sleep on this one.”

Tom tosses the ball back to Dean. “And what would you have him do?”

“Dunno.” He spins the football on his finger. The black and white patches merge and blur in motion, swiftly spinning, confusing the shapes. “I reckon he should just try to be himself."

"Be himself," Tom repeats slowly (judgmentally). "Right."

 

-

 

When Rita Skeeter finally comes for him, it is in the morning, at the most unexpected of moments.

“Why! I don’t believe my eyes.”

Harry is not yet through the loo doors when she thrusts forward her heavily ringed finger. He takes it uneasily and stares at her as she speaks.

“I’m Rita Skeeter, Senior Columnist at the _Daily Prophet_ and, as of yesterday, the lead correspondent on the fallout at Hogwarts. I was hand-selected by the Minister himself. He loves my work.” She clicks open her crocodile skin purse and pulls out a bright green quill and long roll of parchment. “But enough about me. Why don’t we find a more private place to chat?”

With her free hand, she claws her talons around Harry’s shoulder and directs him back into the loo. She locks the door behind them and grins. “This should do.” She sucks the tip of her quill and holds it to the face of the parchment. After a shudder, the quill balances itself, and begins writing on its own: “Testing… testing… my name is Rita Skeeter. Yes, here we are.”

Harry turns his head, pointedly glaring at the urinals and stalls. “Is this really the best location for – ”

“Now Harry,” she begins, her spectacled eyes squinting keenly, “you must know how much the public is dying to hear about you, the first Universe Hopper in living memory. How does that make you feel? Excited? Anxious? Important?”

“Important?” he repeats, already feeling the creep of heat burn red his cheeks. He starts to deny her claim, but is too distracted, for though he’s said nothing, he can read that Skeeter’s quill has already written its first sentence:

_Despite an ugly scar, shaped in a peculiar jagged cut, Harry Potter’s face is fresh and charming, and shows no hint of the tragedy –_

“Please don’t be shy, Harry,” she says with a devilish enthusiasm. “How do you find our world? Do you ever miss the life you left behind?

“Er – ” Harry tries to remember Tom’s advice. Did he even think about this question? “I don’t really miss it, no. I’m more at home here than I ever was there.”

“Yes, I imagine so. We all know your parents died when you were quite young. Very upsetting. It must’ve been quite a shock to arrive here and find yourself not only equipped with magic you could never imagine, but with the family you never had. Some say it’s peculiar that you developed magical abilities at all. What do you say to allegation that you stole your magic from another wizard?”

“What? No, never. It just came naturally to me after I crossed over. I can’t explain how.”

“Fascinating, fascinating…” Even as they sit in silence, her quill continues a manic dance down the parchment. “Now, about that… As I understand it, the magic that brought you here was connected to a boy called Tom Riddle – a former Slytherin Prefect who was allegedly involved with Dumbledore’s Army. Is that true, Harry?”

Harry’s irritation grows acute. “Tom helped me transfer, yeah.”

“And you’ve remained close since?”

“Yeah. I reckon so.” Annoyed, Harry’s eyes drift from Skeeter to the parchment, where a fresh sentence reads:

_As our conversation turns to the dark and troubled object of his loyalty, Harry’s carefree smile sours, revealing the turmoil brewing beneath the surface._

Harry feels his pulse skip. “Dark and troubled? What’s this about?”

“So much pressure for one so young,” she says, shamelessly talking past Harry, moving her head in a pitying shake. “First stripped from your home, then enlisted in a foreign conflict on another’s behalf, and now, on the edge of your seat, anticipating a verdict for the father you only just learned to know… Yes, I think that will do.”

“Wait, hold on –” Harry insists loudly.

Yet Rita Skeeter doesn’t falter as she swiftly returns her belongings to her ugly purse. She examines her coily blond curls in the mirror with a self-directed wink before unlocking the door and stomping off in a flutter of sharp high-heeled clacks.

“It was a pleasure speaking with you, Harry Potter. Do take care.”

 

*               *               *

 

_Dear Mr. Snape:_

_You’ve asked me to report what I learned from your clarifications about Itys. I suppose I’ve gleaned three major insights._

  1. _Pure-bloods are morons. (This I already knew.)_
  2. _Unicorn blood is dangerous. (I knew this, too.)_
  3. _Your mother loved you very much. Your father did not._



_Now forgive me if this last insight is too personal. It is admittedly a guess. To spare you your curiosities, I will elaborate why I’ve deduced as much, while sharing a bit about myself, just to make it even._

_You like women. Pity them, even. You don’t hold Sedley’s sins of matricide and unicorn butchery against her because, in your mind, she needed saving. It's a very curious difference. You see, when I read this story, I do not see motherly love. I see insanity and mediocrity. But unlike you, I never_ _had a mother that loved me. What I had instead was a series of ersatz maternal figures. In this very transient childhood, I lived with a broad spectrum of abandoned children, and I learned much about people like you. Boys with bad but loving mummys were among the most predictable of my cohorts – lonely, withdrawn, and eager to cling to any girl who showed them the slightest ounce of affection._

 _Never really understood it myself._ _I wasn’t blinded. I saw that the girls they chose – too pretty and too clever – were not their friends in earnest. Their smiles were uncomfortable. Their words were strained. It’s a sad fact, I suppose, that pretty girls must like pretty boys, and that ugly mummy’s boys must accept life for what it is._

_But I digress._

_I would now like to end this letter with an acknowledgement of my gratitude. Thank you, Mr. Snape. Thank you for showing me compassion when you could have “mocked” or “condemned” me. Thank you for keeping me on the straight-and-narrow (I haven’t touched Dark Magic in quite some time now!). And most of all, thank you for your lapse in austerity, though we both know who to truly thank for that._

_Sincerely,_

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

 

*               *               *

 

Tom is vaguely aware that he has, of late, developed a nasty habit of being honest. The glaring rational choice—to transform back into what he once was—is unappealing. Harry, however, is anything but.

His lean muscles spread beautifully over the crimson guilloche bedspread. Tom delicately traces one round bicep with the pad of his finger. Harry makes no movement but sighs ever so often, his gaze distant and faded, all wound up and lost in thought. Both chose to forego formal dinner and relied instead on Lily’s homemade confectionaries, a sugar rich meal that has left them still and lazy. Tom stretches his long fingers around Harry’s forearm and joins their tips with a slight squeeze. The feel of him drums warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“Have you ever tried to see yourself the way that others do?”

Harry peers up at him slowly. There is something in his eyes that Tom can’t place. Is it sadness? Fatigue?

“I try not to,” he says faintly, “but I suppose everyone does. At least sometimes.”

“Perhaps.” Tom releases Harry’s arm and lays his hand atop his head. He tousles the coarse hair.

“Have you been practicing your Patronus Charm?”

Itys’s deformed body imagines itself into his memory. Tom shakes his head. “I cannot do it.”

“You can. You’ve just got to practice it.”

“I have practiced it.”

“I didn’t say it’d be easy.” Harry bats away Tom’s hand and rolls from the bed. His knees hit the floor and he kneels at the bedside, beside Tom’s leg. “I can tell you hate the Dementors.”

“I do,” Tom admits. He hates their noises and their chills (and that he is powerless against them). “Unfortunately my magic is indifferent to such sentiments. I simply don’t have it in me. Is that so hard for you to accept?”

“Yeah. It is.” He presses his small hand against Tom’s chest. “Maybe it’s just because you’ve been sick. I can tell that you’re already much better than you were a few days ago. Your color is coming back.” He laughs sweetly. “What bit of color you have at least.”

“Why do you care so much?”

Harry’s smile falls, and the look that replaces it is low with grief. “I’m not trying to pester you, Tom. I only want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” Tom tells him; and sincerely, he is. “Perhaps you should concern yourself with your own emotions before you bother hypothesizing about mine. Umbridge is in power. Your father’s trial is tomorrow. That piece for the _Prophet_ will probably be out any day now.”

A powerful shudder spreads visibly down Harry’s body. He turns away, scowling. “You act like I’m the only one who should be worrying about this.”

“Don’t get stroppy now. You know I care about your father’s verdict.”

“I was talking about the _Prophet_ as well.”

“Oh, spare me. It’s unfortunate but what’s done is done. If a few hundred thousand strangers think you’re a rebel head case, so be it.”

Harry slumps lower, sinking his arse to the floor and holding close his leg. “You don’t understand. I don't care what they think of me."

The next morning, when the owls swoop in, and papers drop, Tom will reevaluate each second of this exchange, and arrive at new conclusions. But tonight he is unaware, and content to smile down at Harry’s amusing pout, and say:

“Good. Because all that matters is how I see you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovely people of the internet. part one is now approaching terminal velocity. buckle up?
> 
> and also thank you for reading. <3


	10. The Trial of James Potter

Draco awakes the usual way: with a sigh, his eyes peeling groggily, reaching for the vibration beneath his pillow. He folds the cool lacquer opal into his grasp and mutters the incantation the fat island man taught him. Years have passed and its properties have weakened, and still it reminds of those faded tastes and sights -- sea salt on ripe mango, white cheeks blistered, his mother milling after the litter of wild Puffskeins he begged to bring home; the good times.

Through his bleary reluctance, he forces himself up and wipes his eyes. The gleam of the lake casts a dark green glimmer over the dormitory. At each bed the curtains are drawn up and tied at the posts. Goyle is the only exception, his canopy split wide, his nude arse on display. Better still than the smug sight hiding behind the curtains diagonal to Draco’s own. There he is: shameless and unknowing, warmed by fine silk his filthy flesh has no right to touch.

This passing hate resonates in Draco's chest with a most delicious jolt of anticipation. 

Today is going to be a very good day.

He is the first to sit in the Great Hall – second, if you consider Pansy, half-asleep, plopping in her seat before he can. The threads of her stern brown hair frizz on top, and softly, he combs them down with his right hand, left fingers gripping her delicate hold.

“There better be a good reason you dragged me here so early, Draco.”

“There is, my dear. I want to make sure we don’t miss it.”

She lifts her head. “Miss what?”

Draco curls his lips in a slow smile. Her honey-brown eyes bloom with understanding.

“So soon? I thought you said it wouldn’t be out until next week.”

“Change of plans. There’s an important trial today. It’s vital that this comes out first. They expect it will be their best-selling in years. Perhaps of all time. The Headmistress received the final draft last night, even let me have a quick look. After today, no one at this pitiful little school will ever second-guess the power of the Ministry.”

Pansy gives a breathy huff and smiles, and her lips are sharp and fierce (and their similarity to Aunt Bella’s delights him). “Good.” 

Next to come are the early-rising Ravenclaws, sat out in spaces, reading and revising. Then the others, entering in bulks, chatting and laughing, blissfully ignorant. Once the Slytherins fill the seats around Draco, he loosens his hold on Pansy and lets her have her fun, telling her cryptic hints to Daphne and Millie, who excite and beg for more detail. Draco takes leasure in her phrasing and her long dramatic pauses; her instinct for words, for knowing how they can cut, was what made him love her first.

There is little he won’t give to ensure that wellness awaits them in this coming decade. The proof is in his uncompromising loyalty to Umbridge; if he can follow her – intransigent, nasty, and sickly-sweet – then to the Minister, his loyalty will prove as pure and true as the ancient blood in his veins.

“Oh, look,” whispers Pansy, “here he comes!”

Riddle enters the Great Hall with little duckling, Theo, a pace behind. Draco will never understand it – Theodore Nott, blood of his blood, son of Milton, heir of a name whose roots spread deep and far, reduced by the whim of a boy called Riddle. Draco’s dissatisfaction remains apparent on his face when Theo claims the spot opposite him.

“Good morning, Draco. You seem well.”

“In fact, I am,” Draco says, tilting his chin high. “I suppose you are doing well yourself. Your cousin starts today, doesn't he?”

“Unfortunately, I believe so.”

“Why is it unfortunate?”

“Because he’s thick as pig shit. At least the beast knew what he was doing.”

Draco mourns Theo’s corruption with a huff of disgust. “That beast was a threat to us all.”

Theo looks unabashed. “Perhaps.”

“Ah, but don’t mind him, Draco,” says Zabini, who catches the conversation as he sits beside Theo. His brunt-edged cheeks hollow with a mock pout. “I fear we’ve truly lost him. He has developed a soft spot for the underlings.”

“A soft spot?” asks Pansy. She sneers mischievously. “More like a hard-on.”

Daphne and Millie giggle heartily but Theo does not seem to mind. He continues buttering his toast with plain indifference.

“Yes, it must hurt,” Draco says, eyeing him. “Just look at them now. All those years you spent waddling after him, and for what? He’s chosen a Muggle.”

Over Theo’s shoulder Draco can see them now: Riddle with his tight shoulders, Potter with his slump. They do not seem particularly happy, and so they shouldn’t; the trial is today. What makes their melancholy all the more sweet is that they have no bloody clue. And nor does the stupid blood-traitor git in front of him, apparently.

“Your collective jealousy bores me,” says Theo. He sets his silverware on either side of his plate. “It wasn't long ago that Daphne was making marital plans.”

Her pretty face blanches. “I did not!”

“What was it you said?” Theo continues bald-facedly. “ _It won’t be so bad if we double-barrel the names, really_.”

“Liar!” Daphne growls. “I’d sooner die! I’d sooner die than muddy my blood!”

“Oh, shut up,” snaps Pansy. “You practically molested him at the start of the term. We all saw it.”

“Never mind it,” Draco says as Daphne begins to rise from her seat. “The truth is that he fooled most of Slytherin, and he’s fooling Theo still. But it doesn’t matter anymore. As soon as the paper arrives, everyone will see him and Potter and all their filthy little friends for what they truly are.”

“Draco! Draco! Look!” shouts Pansy. The familiar flap of feathered wings are fluttering in the Hall like a symphony. “Here it comes!”

 

*               *               *

 

Before Harry sees the text, he sees their stares: heads turning quick, break-neck and eager, hot whispers echoing in a droning, waspy buzz. Tom’s careful fingers smooth the paper.

The front picture is of Harry and Tom. Both stand so still that the shot seems almost Muggle. The sharp downward angle exaggerates their features and leaves an impression that is legible in its intent. Harry seems frightened with his bright green eyes blown wide and his brows deeply furrowed. Without knowing that in front of Harry stood a hoard of goading photographers, there is only one explanation for the source of his distress: Tom, whose hand is clenched around his shoulder. His glossy eyes are eerily disengaged and give his high and elegant face an imposing quality.

 

 **DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY EXPOSED: “EXTREMISTS, DELINQUENTS, AND THE UNIVERSE HOPPER”**  

_An extended exposé on the students behind Dumbledore’s treasonous plot._

_From the deepest, darkest bowels of its dungeons to the summits of its spires, Hogwarts Castle is a proud symbol of our kind as it stands guard over the small village of Hogsmeade, the last true wizarding settlement left in the British Isles. This magnificent vestige is perhaps the last place one would expect anti-magical sentiment to brew. And yet, it was here at Hogwarts School that Albus Dumbledore, former Headmaster, commenced his conspiracy to overthrow the Minister for Magic._

_Abiding strict confidentiality laws, the Ministry will not release the names of students involved in the radical cell known as Dumbledore’s Army. To better clarify the events that unfolded, newly-appointed Headmistress Dolores Umbridge authorized an investigative team to interview students at Hogwarts School earlier this week._

_The story uncovered is an intricate and twisted tale of slander, abuse, and pro-Muggle extremism, revolving critically around the exploitation of one exceptional student who made headlines last summer: 16-year-old Harry Potter, Britain’s first Universe Hopper in over a century._

_Harry Potter was the focal point of Dumbledore’s Army, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Using Potter’s celebrity as the Universe Hopper, Dumbledore cleverly conned Potter and his peers into believing the young traveler possessed a divine power that destined them to overthrow the Minister and start a pro-Muggle revolution—which would of course mean installing Dumbledore in Minister Grindelwald’s place._

_“Conveniently,_ _Mr. Dumbledore did not bother to tell students that there are many documented cases of Universe Hoppers who never accomplished anything of merit at all,” explains Jörgen Kick, Chair of the Mysterious Magic Enthusiasts—Hamburg Chapter. “Still, there will always be those out there who try to use the strange phenomena to their advantage.”_

_Headmistress Umbridge became aware of suspicious rebel activity within her first semester at Hogwarts, when the Minister appointed her High Inquisitor. “First it was the textbooks, I believe. Hundreds of valuable texts – funded by wizarding Britain’s hard-earned taxes – were destroyed overnight. I assumed then it was simply a bit of generic hooliganism, no more no less.” The Headmistress’s assumption, however, was soon challenged by a series of suspicious happenings: vandalism of Ministry decrees, theft of the Headmistress’s private mail, and, critically, an incident of sexually lewd conduct. It was not long after this most lascivious of crimes that a valiant young student conned by Dumbledore risked her life to inform the Headmistress._

_“The brave, brave girl,” continued the Headmistress, her eyes falling in rue. “Even knowing that her testimony would trigger a nasty jinx that has left her scarred, this honest soul told us everything: about Dumbledore’s plan to take over the Ministry, and how he’d used poor little Harry Potter to convince the students.”_

_The Headmistress divulged that though Potter was an early suspect in the curious activities, he was erroneously dismissed from their consideration. “He’s a very innocent boy,” she explained. “You wouldn’t think him capable of it.”_

_Indeed, once the investigation team had completed its first round of inquiries, the evidence had mounted that Potter, while an important piecemeal, was himself oblivious to the greater implications of Dumbledore’s gambit._

_“He’s very behind in his magic,” said sixth-year Blaise Zabini, 17, when asked about Potter’s reputation. Zabini’s judgement was corroborated by several of Potter’s peers who claimed he was not yet fit for the challenging curriculum, and could often be identified crying in class when he failed to cast the simplest of elementary spells._

_“I don’t think he really knows much about the wizarding world at all,” continued Zabini. “As far as I can tell, he’s completely dependent on others. Especially that Tom Riddle. Yes, I imagine Riddle was the real reason he went along with Dumbledore.”_

_Through testimony from his classmates we learned that Tom Riddle, 17, is the boy who found the other half of Potter’s enchanted portal, and was thus responsible for his crossing over to our world. His perspective could clarify much on the origins of Potter and the rise of a terror movement. But Riddle himself was reluctant to speak with our investigators when asked about his involvement with both Potter and Dumbledore’s Army._

_Soon the investigative team learned why. Acquaintances disclosed that Muggle-born Riddle is a known maligner of pure-blood culture, with some going so far as to call him an extremist in his ideology. “It was dead scary to work with him when we were Prefects together,” said sixth-year Pansy Parkinson, 17. “Sometimes he’d go into mad rants, start talking about his nasty childhood, blaming wizards for the state of the Muggle world... Well, I think it’s obvious he needs help.”_

_Other students upheld Parkinson’s testimony, revealing that Riddle, an orphan with a dark and enigmatic past, has a long history of distressing and eccentric behavior. Perhaps the most telling and provocative of insights came from sixth-year Draco Malfoy, 16, the leader of the Ministry-ordained civic task force and Riddle’s longtime dorm-mate: “Not many know the truth about Riddle. He’s very disturbed, you see, likes to talk to himself… I think he’s a bit of a danger to Harry, if I’m honest. You can always spot Riddle dragging him around and pushing him about.”_

_This brow-raising disclosure stirred suspicions. Was it possible that the gullible and innocuous Harry Potter was caught in the clutches of an abusive friend, making him ripe for Dumbledore’s ruthless exploitation? On the advice of Malfoy, we asked sixth-year Daphne Greengrass, 16, what her knowledge was of Riddle’s violent tendencies. Her eyes teemed with tears which she bravely held back to say, “Once when we were at a party I went to ask him for a dance and he grabbed my arms and pushed me down. He told me he would never touch a filthy pig-blood. That’s what he calls us, you know… pig-bloods. I was so frightened.”_

_Violent, radical and embittered by the Muggle world, Riddle was a perfect candidate for Dumbledore’s recruitment, made more desirable by his personal connection to Potter. At this point in our investigation it became clear there was but one person left to speak with: the Universe Hopper himself._

_Despite an ugly scar, shaped in a peculiar jagged cut, Harry Potter’s face is fresh and charming, and shows no hint of the tragedy beneath the newfound fame. When asked how he feels about living in wizarding Britain, he began listing a long-winded and endearing catalogue of all that our world has offered him. His voice had the raspy sound of a much younger boy as he rambled about his love of Acid Pops and Fizzing Whizbees. On the topic of his father, the former Auror James Potter, who is currently under indictment for charges of high treason, Potter did not have much to say, seeming ostensibly oblivious to the severity of these accusations._

_However, when our conversation turned to the dark and troubled object of his loyalty, Harry’s carefree smile soured. His answers became terse. The lovely, simple-minded boy transformed into a taciturn shell of what he’d been just moments ago. The conversation ended shortly after._

_And so, dear readers, what to make of Dumbledore’s Army? Were they rebels? Innocents? Pawns in a futile bid for power? Humbled by the uncertain nature of investigative reporting, we, the_ Daily Prophet _, defer to the shrewd judgements of Headmistress Umbridge, who offered us these wise words of closure:_

_“It would be wrong to assume that the students involved in Dumbledore’s Army were zealots. Many were not. Many were simply model students misled to revolt by the false pretenses of a man they trusted. However, among these decent, if naïve, participants, there were also extremists, delinquents, and the Universe Hopper, all of whom demonstrated an acute interest in distrupting the established order. Moving forward, I think it prudent not to consider any of our students as inherently good or bad. Instead, we should regard each unruly child as a deserving subject for proper re-education on a rich history that too many have so swiftly forgotten.”_

When Harry lifts his head, the first face he sees is Hermione’s. The whites of her eyes are stark and wide, and they grow wider and wider until Harry sees nothing but a white so bright its blinding. And then a chill, a thump, a surge of rage; and the hiss of his name.

“Harry?”

The voice of Hermione.

“Harry, are you alright?”

He startles from his reverie with a gasp and looks around. He feels alternated. Sweat pools in his palms, and in his belly, there is a foreign stirring that laps up his chest and froths acidic his throat. Harry glances Tom askance and gasps.

“Your nose…” Harry gathers a serviette in a wad and raises it to his bloodied lip. “Here, you have to –”

The cloth goes aflame upon contacting Tom’s skin. Harry panics and throws it on the table. Ginny, quick, extinguishes the fire with her glass of squash, causing the white fabric to sizzle and smoke into ash. Around them roars a public fit of excitement. Students from Slytherin are wheezing and hooting, pointing in open amusement. Several students from the other Houses stand and shout in retaliation. As their volume builds, so too do their actions. First it is a jet blue streak, and next a zap of red, and then another and another, until a screeching howl sounds from the other side of the Hall.

“ENOUGH!”

The amplified voice reverberates down the tables. Headmistress Umbridge’s composure is not that of her benign girlish act. She is enraged. Her mouth is stretched down so that her bottom teeth show like an unwieldly bulldog’s. Silently, she brandishes her wand and sounds a low drone. Within seconds, three Dementors from the corridor glide to her side. Their black bodies are stark and grim beside her blistering pink.

“NOW then,” she says, her wand arm alert and ready. “I’ll have you know, the Minister himself will be visiting Hogwarts this weekend. How do you think he would react, watching you jump around like animals? The next student who sees fit to make a disruption will be promptly punished. Have I made myself clear?”

The rattling breaths of the Dementors are all that can be heard as the roused students slowly sink back into their seats.

“Good.”

Umbridge shoos the Dementors away and, as she falls back into her seat, her proud eyes locate Harry’s for a brief jubilant moment before breaking contact again.

“Harry, Tom,” comes the low consoling voice of Hermione. “I’m so sorry they’ve done this to you.”

Tom’s jaw remains locked, his gaze unreachable. Harry takes the burnt serviette and stuffs it into his own bag, just to get it out of the way.

“I can’t believe it,” Harry mutters. “They made me sound like I’m absolutely clueless.”

“You know it’s all rubbish,” says Ron. “I mean, it’s not like Tom’s some psychotic murderous tosspot, is it?”

Harry blinks slowly.

“Oi.” Ginny snaps her fingers in front of Tom. “Riddle. You in there?”

He stiffly turns to her, eyebrows upraised. There is still blood beneath his nose. “My apologies.”

“For what? Calling us pig-bloods? Ah, you don’t have to apologize about that, mate. Sort of has a ring to it. Take this.” She extends another serviette. “And try not to burn the school down this time.”

Tom raises a long finger to the wet line of red. “My apologies.”

“Yeah, alright,” says Ginny, frowning. “We heard it the first time.”

“Don’t worry about that stupid paper, Tom,” Hermione tells him supportively. “It’s not even well-written. Just a bunch of slanders made to make you and Harry seem like a couple of nutters.”

Harry rustles his shoulder against Tom’s. “At least you sound a bit interesting. They make me sound like I can’t even do my own laces up.”

“Yeah. It will blow over.” Ginny shakes the cloth. “Just get yourself clean.”

After a slow, shuddering breath through his nose, Tom accepts Ginny’s serviette.

“Well, on the plus side,” says Hermione, “this does show us something worth being grateful for. The Minister isn’t after the students after all. He’s after Dumbledore.”

“You think so?” Tom questions in an absent voice. He tosses the bloodied cloth on the table and stands. “Pardon me.”

The regard of the Great Hall tracks Tom on his path out. Harry wants to follow him, talk things through with him… but how would that look now? All the stupid wankers watching would take the gesture as evidence that the article is right, that he’s just some ditty little follower... His eyes fall back to their photograph.

“It is unfortunate that the  _Prophet_  is all this school reads,” says Luna, picking its corner and holding it at a distance, foully screwing her face. “Daddy would never publish such rubbish.”

 

*               *               *

 

Wand-light, moondew extract, an insufferably petty urge to spoil the operation. This is Severus’s morning, spent cooped in the furthest corner of the Hall of Prophecies. If only he’d taken that apprenticeship in Lorraine when he was a boy. He regrets it rarely but powerfully, particularly in moments such as this, where his strings are up and ready for his puppet-masters’ toil. High treason is what the Minister will call it. Loyalty is what Dumbledore will call it. Lily will praise him and Potter will say his begrudging thanks, and Severus will fill with lust for the brine of La Moselle.

The hobbling shuffle of McElroy’s boots is music to his ears. Severus pads into his office, as casual as one could be, and exchanges what must be exchanged. How ironic, he thinks. All this for a man he despises.

Said man is in his best robes when Severus arrives in Dumbledore’s Office at the Potter Manor.

“Oh, Severus,” says Lily. Her arms are too occupied straightening Potter’s collar to bother with a hug or proper acknowledgment. “Please tell me it went as planned.”

“I have done as I was instructed. I’m afraid I cannot account for unexpected variables.”

She frowns and tosses him a folded newspaper. “How about expected ones?”

“Oh my.” He shakes his head upon seeing the cover, dismissing swiftly the upsurge of amusement that begs to be shown. It is all very fitting, isn’t it? For what other reason should this stupid child be relevant than as a tool for the greater plans? (This, they have in common, Severus supposes.) He thumbs through it for the highlights, stifled smiles all the way through. “This is unfortunate.”

“Yes,” starts Dumbledore, observing his own wrinkled hands, clasped before him, “Gellert always did have a knack for storytelling. His ability to spread a rumor far and wide earned him several enemies in our Hogwarts days.”

Lily sighs, taking back the page. She stares worriedly at its front. “You don’t think there’s any truth to it, do you, Severus? In your correspondences, I mean… Has he said anything off?”

“Come on, Lily,” James says quietly. “You know our Harry. He’s no pushover.”

“Correspondences?” asks Dumbledore. His words are not so casual as they seem. “You’ve been in contact with young Mr. Potter?”

“The future Mr. Potter, as it were.” Severus expects Lily’s annoyed gasp, and relishes the sweet sound. “And no, Lily, I do not think our exchange has produced any relevant insights.”

“What about—” Lily pauses, her mouth snapping shut as her eyes dart to Dumbledore. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore voices, a merriness audible, “I fear I’ve found myself in the unpleasant position of being an unwanted listener. You must forgive me for saying this, Lily, but at the moment, I think it matters less how true the article is, and more how persuasive the Wizengamot finds it. What will you say, James? How will you respond to the accusation that your son has been manipulated to serve my treachery?”

James turns his head, scowling. “I’ll say that it’s untrue.”

“Will you?”

“I will.”

“And with what evidence? A father’s intuition?”

“I’ll say it’s impossible,” James insists. His averted gaze belies his uncertainty. “I mean, my blood’s as pure as it gets. Why would my own son join a movement against me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Severus interjects. What a bloody joke Potter is, being an Auror. “Not everyone who commits to a movement is a true convert.” He levitates the paper between them.  “What would you think, if you were not his father? If you did not know him?”

“I don’t know,” James mutters. “It’s hard to say. I wouldn’t think the  _Prophet_  was a good source of information, whatever the case.”

“But you also wouldn’t think it entirely false, would you?”

“How should I know?”

“James,” Dumbledore says lowly. “I know the Wizengamot well. Some will defend you. Some will not. You must persuade the nonpartisans, which should not be thought impossible. Gellert has yielded one advantage to us.”

James swallows. “Yeah. Sure. We know what the claimant will say. He’ll use the smears against my son to make like I was the one using him for your agenda.”

“Indeed, he will. And you can imagine that to the Wizengamot, this will seem a perfectly reasonable explanation for what has happened. You cannot forget that Dolores Umbridge sits on the Wizengamot. Her presence alone will change the course of the proceedings.”

“Then what should I say, Dumbledore? He’s got me cornered. Wouldn’t it be better if I just came clean? Told everyone the truth?”

“No,” Lily says. “Think about Harry. If you come clean, he’ll lose the presumption of innocence. You just need to provide a counter-narrative... I don’t know what it could be, but it needs to be something that makes it seem like you and Harry are both low-rung.”

The room is quiet and split. James and Lily hold hands and stare at each other, conjoint in their cluelessness, refusing to see what is obvious to both Severus and Dumbledore. Severus cues Dumbledore with a small shrug; it will certainly be better received coming from him.

“Pettigrew’s letters are damning, yes,” says Dumbledore, looking between James and Lily. “Fortunately for us, they do not provide enough detail to directly implicate you on their own. You must use this to your benefit. Pettigrew will say that you were meeting with me in secret. Unless he wants to endanger his own reputation, this will be all he says. The blanks are yours to fill. You cannot expect them to believe that Harry was not involved. You can, however, expect them to believe that  _you_  knew nothing about it.

“Admit you met with me, but say that you did not cooperate with my request. Admit fault in not reporting me then, but say it is because you feared for your family’s well-being. Confirm that Harry is unwell, and that you have reason to believe he’s susceptible to manipulation. We shall prepare your statement privately now… Yes, and he shall find it amusing, I think. He knows quite well how compelling rebel stupidity can be when paired with charm…”

Dumbledore lowers his half-moon spectacles and sighs. Surely he is thinking of blond golden locks. Severus knows well and good himself. For what other reason would they be here, fighting for Lily and James, if they themselves did not lack something owed?

 

*               *               *

 

Riddle:

At long last what you’ve waited for: a letter which demands no response. Unfortunately it is often those pure things we wish for that have a nasty way of coming true.

You have much to fear, Tom Riddle. If you were a smart lad, you’d say your goodbyes and take the quickest Portkey out of the country. I of course know that you won’t do this because, like all fools, you think yourself invincible. But at least it’s food for thought, no?

Warmly,

Snape

 

*               *               *

 

As if the day has conspired to go from bad to worse, it is obvious to Hermione at first glance that Amycus Carrow is no Professor Lupin.

He is wispy thin and his hair is lank, and his humorlessness hits her before she can even have a seat. The once-homey classroom is no more. Carrow has blacked out the windows, stripped the wall of their posters, and replaced the spell-practice dummy with an upright skeleton (oh, and goodness, look at the texture, she’ll bet it’s real!). Hermione takes her seat at Ron’s side and scoots in. Close enough to stop him if he tries to make an outburst… or heck, vice versa, for that matter.

“SIT DOWN, YOU LOT!”

Her wand slips down her palm and clatters on the desk. Well!

“I realize your minds have been perverted by the lies of a werewolf for these years at Hogwarts,” he croaks nastily, looking from student to student as if trying to spot one in the midst of wrong-doing. “It is now my responsibility to scour your ears clean from the filth of his instruction and introduce you to the true meaning of the Dark Arts. However!” Carrow slams his fist on the lectern. “As an official of the Ministry, I have permission to demonstrate the so-called Unforgivables today.”

A solid hand finds Hermione’s leg beneath the desk. Oh, of all times, Ronald? She doesn’t know what to do. Bat him off? Accept him? She cannot decide now; she bites her lip instead.

Pulling out a bit of parchment from his briefcase, Carrow flits his beady-eyes between it and the students. “I got a good look at your O.W.L. scores before coming in today. Three Os between the lot of you? Pathetic!” He balls the paper and raises it above his head in emphasis. “Theo!”

Theodore Nott’s shoulders rise visibly with his sigh. “Yes?”

“Catch!”

There’s no attempt from Nott to dodge of catch. The hurled parchment hits his forehead, then falls light on the desk. Carrow laughs.

“Never had good reflexes, this one. But didn’t stop you from getting an O, eh? We all overcome our shortcomings, by some means or another. Take Padma Patil for example.”

Padma makes a small noise.

“Being a witch didn’t stop her from beating out you big boy wizards. Though not  _all_  big boy wizards, mind.” With a downward hunch and a sneer, Carrow stalks up to the front most desk, where Harry and Tom sit. He wags his finger emphatically. “This one here, now. This one sat all twelve exams. Os across the board. I might would ask for a demonstration but… Well, I think that might get a bit dangerous, all things considered. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Riddle?”

The back of his head gives Hermione no insight. Is Tom snarling? Is Harry?

Carrow droops his head lower, right into Tom’s space. “Quiet. Very quiet. Looks like we’ll have to fix that.  _Imperio_!”

It happens so quickly. Carrow, raising his wand. Tom, jumping to his feet. The contorted rage on Carrow’s face enraptures the class. His nose scrunches up, his eyes tighten, and his fingers, clenched around the wand, pale to an unnatural shade of yellow-white. As possibilities for intervention occur to Hermione, it is over. Carrow stumbles back, panting.

“Well,” Carrow grunts, adjusting his neck, “reckon I’d rather not get in there anyway, eh? No telling what I’d find. Him on the other hand... Ha!” He points his wand at Harry. “Universe Hopper! Get up here.”

Even from behind, the stiffness in Harry’s slow rise is evident. He takes labored steps to the board and turns around. His face is proud and firm with a twitch at the jaw.

“Who in this classroom do you hate the most?”

Harry’s gaze darts to the right. At Malfoy. Carrow catches Harry’s subtle gesture and gives a great ugly grin.

“Don’t like Draco much, do you? Come here, lad. What are you looking so nervous for? You know Potter here couldn’t hurt a fly. Bit like a child, isn’t that right?”

Malfoy is smiling when he takes his stand in front of Harry. Shameless monster. He gets off on this. His attitude of eagerness settles a solemn cold down Hermione’s body. 

“Now,” Carrow starts, looking between both of them, severe in his brow, “the two of you are going to learn a most valuable spell. The Cruciatus Curse.”

Hermione’s hand snaps to her mouth. There’s no way could he mean it…

“Allow me to demonstrate.  _Crucio_.”

Carrow does not shoot at Harry, or even Draco—he shoots at Nott. He grunts high and bends in on himself, twitching electrically. Carrow lifts the curse almost as soon as he casts it.

“Haha!” Carrow bellows. “You right there, little Theo? Don’t you worry, none of you. Changed this one’s diapers myself. Wouldn’t want him hurting too much—just a little shock!” He laughs again. “But that’s the courtesy us Carrows show each other. I wonder how it differs when cast by… _enemies_.”

“No,” says Harry. He shakes his head. “I won’t do it. Not even to you.”

Malfoy snorts jeeringly. “Of course. Innocent little Harry Potter wouldn’t dare.”

“Maybe I would, if I thought you were important enough to bother with.”

“Oh ho!” Carrow chuckles, rocking back and forth, heel to toe. “Now I know that Lucius Malfoy’s son isn’t gonna take something like  _that_  on the chin! Let’s see it, boy. Let’s see what you can do.”

The eager self-assuredness on Malfoy remains until the very moment his wand is before him, extended in the space between. He hesitates.

“What are you waiting for?” Carrow probes contemptuously. “ _Do it!_ ”

Malfoy closes his eyes. “Crucio!”

The words sound weak and, sure enough, Harry laughs.

“AGAIN!”

“Crucio!”

“That all you got?” Harry asks. “Come on, I thought you were the big hero around here. Exposing the daft Potter head case and all.”

“Crucio!”

To the bitter end of Hermione’s life, she will never understand how someone so malevolent and cruel as Draco-bloody-Malfoy, a boy who perspires hatred, who inhales prejudice in each breath that he takes, lacks the command to cast the Cruciatus.

“Disgraceful!” Carrow screeches. “Watch and learn.  _Crucio!_ ”

Harry collapses headfirst forward, screaming, his arms wound at his chest. Hermione and Ron both stand and shoot toward Professor Carrow. The red beams hit the blackboard and ricochet, victimless. Carrow narrowly misses their offense by dropping to the floor. Hermione steadies herself, prepared to shoot again upon his rise—but strangely, he does not. She steps in closer and gasps. Like a cockroach, Carrow’s limbs are up in the air, thrashing in a manic flail. He screams shrilly. 

Chairs fall to the ground as students run to observe to him. Hermione is at the front, her studious eyes examining the room, seeking an explanation.

“Quick, somebody help!”

“Is he breathing?!”

“No, look at him, look at his lips—”

Only one student remains seated. Tom. His hands are wandless. His lips do not move. It is only by his callous eyes, set straight on Carrow, unwavering and unsurprised, Hermione knows it is him.

“Someone needs to get Madam Pompfrey!” Parkinson shouts. She’s kneeling at his side, hands hovering uselessly.  

Discreetly, Hermione weaves around the other students. Their attention is too rapt to notice her. Once at Tom’s side, she rests a hand on his shoulder. “Tom.”

He stares at Carrow a moment longer, then breaks. Carrow lets out a great growl of relief and rolls onto his back, coughing and heaving. Tom sighs through his nose.

“Hello, Hermione. It’s curious, isn’t it?” He extends his hand in the direction of wheezing, disoriented Carrow. “Almost as if…” 

One by one, he curls in his long fingers, and when he has a fist, he jerks, squeezing tight. Carrow hacks a deep throaty cough and falls back to his knees. A slobbering mouthful of blood dribbles to the stone.

Tears burn in Hermione’s ducts. “Tom, I—”

His regard hits hers sharply. “Have a complaint?”

“Tom, come on, quick,” comes Harry’s hurried voice as he walks toward them. He grips Tom around the elbow and yanks. “Let’s get going.”

“Wait,” Hermione mutters. “Wait you two, please—”

“OUT OF HERE!” Carrow screeches. “OUT OF HERE! OUT!”

 

-

 

Hermione does not see Tom again until afternoon Arithmancy. It is but a brief nod before Professor Vector begins, droning monotone. Hermione cracks her knuckles and attempts to follow along, yet her mind drifts as she half-copies the equation.

Carrow’s image has not left her. She remembers his eyes (screwed tight) and his lips (unnaturally blue). It shouldn’t bother her, really. He most certainly deserved it, didn’t he? Is it not commensurate with his own horridness, casting that wretched spell on Harry?

From the corner of her eye, she sees Tom’s profile: neck bent down, hand scribbling dutifully. She’s hit quick by nostalgia. Third-year in the dormitory. Lavender laughing herself silly as Parvati went down the list of boys.

Dean?  _Fit!_  McLaggen?  _Fit._  Seamus?  _Fugly_! Snog, marry, kill: Percy Weasley, Greg Goyle and Professor Flitwick!  _Ew, Parvati. That’s vile._  Hermione had sat with a gruff scowl, hidden behind a book. She was too good for them. Too good for such tripe. That didn’t stop her mind from going on listening, of course. Here’s a hard one now, said Parvati. Cedric Diggory, Dean Thomas, and Tom Riddle?  _Oh, let’s see… Well, I’d snog Diggory; that’s a given. I don’t want to kill Deanie, but that Riddle seems so sweet… Sorry Deanie!_

These memories are powerful now, knowing how soon it will all end. No one will speak so innocently about him anytime soon. She’s heard enough in her walks through corridor to know that the daft article has some purchase, at least among the idiots around here _. That poor Harry Potter, I had no idea. Do you think there’s anything we can do? Should we reach out to him?_   _And what about that Tom Riddle? Scary, isn’t he? Could be dangerous keeping him around here_.  _What if he hurts him because of the article?_

Well that should be the least of their concerns. Hermione is sure that if Tom’s a danger to anyone, it’s certainly not to Harry. Thick in the back of her spell-locked notebook is a bundle of pages that she wrote with Tom. Plots for the future when neither really knew what to expect. Even in their most drastic alternative plans, he was unwilling to gamble with Harry’s well-being—not theoretically, not as a matter of last resort. She did wonder if it was all Tom’s empty talk, or if when it came down to it, Harry's protection really was his singular priority. Having witnessed his attack on Carrow has eradicated whatever doubt there was.

“And thus!” says Professor Vector, hard chalk breaking on her enthusiastic exclamation. “Hobblecog’s axiom of extension. It asserts that sets formed by the same magical elements are equals. Quite a simple concept on paper. The properties of seven phoenix hairs will invariably produce seven additions to a potion, unless subtracted by a reductive property. This is the essence of all spell-work, all potioneering, all forecasting—and yet, we know there exist erratic domains in magic where the axiom does not apply. Who can tell me, generally, where you will find this exception?”

Hermione raises her hand. “Hobblecog’s axiom is thought to face limitations in the Dark Arts, where the molecular behavior of spells is infamously unpredictable. Hence why there is a binary between Light and Dark spellcasting at all.”

Professor Vector nods. “Very good, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor. You see, students, this is the crux of Melwick’s Fifth Law, which relies on the logic of…”

It’s hardly worth elaboration, she thinks. A + B equals both A + B and B + A, and this will always be true, except when it’s not. What does any of this matter, anyhow? Why is she even still sitting here at Hogwarts, when she should be off doing something, convincing the bureaucrats to turn on Grindelwald? Yes, if only she could meet with them in person, explain matters clearly. These plans she made with Tom, they all relied first on outreach. Peacemaking. Never were they to use brute force unless there was no other option.

Oh, bloody Carrow. The idiotic wretch. She tries and tries to move her mind, but still, she wonders: Is she weak for feeling how she feels? One year ago, the question of whether pity was good or bad wouldn’t have aroused ambivalence. She knew who she was. Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Prefect, best witch of her year, ardent defender of the rights of house-elves, aspiring barrister.

When she joined Harry and Tom in building the D.A., the choice fit well into her narrative, and it helped her work through her concerns about being second best. So what if Tom was a better student? That made him a good leader and they needed that. No one wanted to follow the insufferable know-it-all. She could be content on the sidelines, doing the good work, requiring no praise. Girls like her don’t get to stand front-center; boys like Tom do.

And if this weren’t true, then perhaps there’d be no Gellert Grindelwald here to fight at all. 

 

*               *               *

 

James Potter thought he knew this room well. He’s sat on those benches. Spoke at that lectern. Stood in that alcove with his head turned down, sightlessly listening to a man’s final scream as the Kiss ripped soul from flesh.

From this vantage, all that happened then feels meaningless. Never before has he felt so lost to the world. He clenches the wooden armrests and searches the shadows for reassurance. No seat is empty. His former colleagues fill the front two queues, Padfoot among them. He sits directly in front of Lily. Even in this low-lit and hollow space, her broad face catches shine, radiant in the cast of his gloom. Somehow this does not offer him comfort.

The Minister rises from his seat.

“James Fleamont Potter. You stand accused of intent to commit high treason against the Minister for Magic. How do you find this charge?”

James straightens proudly. “I plead innocent, Minister.”

“Very well. Then on today the twenty-eight of March,” says Minister Grindelwald, and Arthur Weasley’s boy beside him begins taking notes, “we read into offences committed under the Treason Act of 1743, James Fleamont Potter, resident at number seven, Church Lane, Godric’s Hollow, West Country.

“Interrogators: Gellert Grindelwald, Minister for Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Pius Pickney Thicknesse, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley. Primary claimant, Peter Jude Pettigrew. Primary witness for the defense, Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office.

“The Wizengamot shall evaluate the testimonies today and make a public judgment. If a two-thirds majority is not met, I, your Minister, shall determine the final ruling per executive discretion as granted by the Exigency Act of 1943. Do you, James Potter, profess to be of sound mind, soul, and magic?”

James nods once. “Yes, Minister. I do.”

He smirks, a subdued amusement glistening in his steel gray eyes. “Then without further ado. Mr. Pettigrew may take the stand.”

Wormtail scurries out from behind the benches. His eyes do not dare meet James’s. For the better. If they did, James isn’t sure what would become of his composure. Wormtail’s stocky fingers shake as he lays the parchment over the lectern face. James’s heart skips uncomfortably. Heading the top of his first page is Auror letterhead. He feels like such a fool: once for writing the letters, twice for ever having trusted him at all.

“H-hello,” stutters Wormtail. Fat sweat globs drip down his cheeks. “It is an honor to stand before the Wizengamot. I am Peter Pettigrew and I am the primary claimant against James F. Potter.”

The Minister nods. “State your relationship to the defendant.”

“We’re—” Wormtail glances toward James, but snaps his head back toward the Minister before truly looking. “We were friends. Dear friends. We shared a dorm at Hogwarts in Gryffindor House and stayed in close contact as adults. However, I began to grow suspicious of James last summer. Soon after he adopted the Universe Hopper, his attitude toward the Ministry seemed to shift.”

“Elaborate.”

“Er, well…” Wormtail blushes and shuffles the parchment around. “You see, Minister, I can’t say I know everything, but I know it started with Dumbledore. Dumbledore first contacted James sometime in June. I suspect it had much to do with Harry and his plans for conspiring against the Ministry.”

“The letters you’ve brought,” says the Minister, gesturing. “As I recall, they make no mention of Albus Dumbledore.”

“N-no, they don’t. But they  _do_  suggest that James was preparing to mobilize against the Ministry. The Wizengamot was distributed copies prior to the trial, correct?”

The Minister smiles. “Correct.”

Wormtail sighs with relief and laughs a bit nervously. “Then a summary is in order, I suspect. I can start with…” He flips through them unsteadily.

 “June seventeenth,” says the Minister. “Read from the third paragraph.”

“Yes!” Wormtail squawks. “Yes, of course. Let’s see…  _I have met with the associates. We have reason to believe the Minister will be in Copenhagen. An agent has been sent to gather intelligence._ ”

“July ninth.” He says this sharply. “Fifth paragraph.”

Wormtail flips through frantically. “Ahem. Yes.  _The associates believe we should lie low for now. Suspicion is growing._ ”

“And September third. Read the whole thing.”

James’s jaw tightens. This letter, he remembers.

“ _Took Harry to Diagon for the first time. Lit up like a Christmas tree, I tell you. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about him going off to Hogwarts. Tom’s helped out a lot with his studies, but I’m not sure he’s ready, his problems being what they are. Some associates even think he might should be taking part in our effort. Well, maybe they’re right, but I told them there was no chance of it under my watch. He’s too fragile for all that rubbish. At any rate, come by the house when you can._ ”

“It is interesting, is it not?” The Minister says this more to the Wizengamot than to Wormtail, who still nods eagerly. “Of course, much of it is written in code. I do believe that you, Mr. Pettigrew, are well aware of what all this means.”

“No, Minister. I mean, now I am, yes. But not at the time. James… He was very cryptic, you see. I implied that I was interested in learning more, but he knows my background is in journalism, so he had some reservations about being too forthright. I’ve been an editor at the  _Prophet_ for over a decade. He wanted to include me, but he said he needed the approval of the others, and  _that_ —well, he never got that, seeing as I was known to be loyal to you, sir.

“At the time, I was more or less clueless about what he meant, exactly. As soon as I could be certain that he was, in fact, involved in a sort of anti-Ministry effort, I reported directly to Undersecretary Thicknesse.”

“Indeed,” says Thicknesse. He pets his goatee thoughtfully. “I can confirm that at the time of Mr. Pettigrew’s initial inquiry, neither of us suspected Dumbledore to be implicated in matters. However, quite fortuitously, it would seem certain puzzle pieces have… ah,  _surfaced_  since.”

“Yes.” Wormtail gulps. “Yes, that’s right. I remember now that James had been meeting with Dumbledore. I had assumed it was for something Auror related, seeing as he was reluctant to give further details.”

“So, spell it out for us,” says the Minister, leaning back in his chair. “Tell us what you it all means.”  

“I believe…” He hesitates, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his robe sleeve. “I believe that Dumbledore recruited James to join his efforts against the Ministry, and I believe he used James’s son, Harry, as part of his appeal. It is as the  _Prophet_ says, you see. The boy is very stunted. Very immature. It would’ve been quite easy for James to use him for a bit of shared glory in Dumbledore’s league.”

The Minister claps his hands once. “Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew. I believe that should be sufficient. Now we shall allow Mr. Potter to give his rebuttal. Mr. McElroy, the Veritaserum, if you will.”  

The old Unspeakable limps to James in a steady pitter-patter. Pinched between his fingers is James’s moment of truth. When McElroy has handed it over, James pauses, swishing the clear liquid. He could be holding his ticket to life in Azkaban. Snape could have left it as is, or the Minister could have suspected something, had it exchanged…

He takes a deep breath and uncaps its cork.

 

*               *               *

 

The diary, his scrolls, his locket, a spare set of clothes—yes, this should be good. Tom settles them carefully within his extended wallet. Vanished from existence are all his other belongings, save for the books he’s arranged inside Nott’s (too messy) trunk. And of the three flacons arranged on his bedspread, two aren’t really his any longer, are they?

“Theo.”

Nott lowers his quill. Oh, essay writing – one aspect of Hogwarts that Tom certainly won’t miss.

“Ready to tell me what you’re plotting over there?”

“In fact, I am.” Tom levitates the milk-white potion to him. “I think you can guess what this is for.”

He eyes it, smiling. “So long as it won’t kill him.”

Tom is not smiling back. “And if it will?”

“Will it?”

“No, it won’t,” Tom says slowly. “But it will kill his will to teach here. A couple of drops will be enough.”

“Whatever it takes to see the back of him,” Nott says lightly, shrugging. “What are the others there for?”

“This,” Tom lifts the blue flacon, “is another part where you come in. You see, as it is, more than half of the school is convinced I’m a complete nutter, so my word means very little. You, on the other hand; you’re the son of Milton Nott, a Hogwarts Governor. Yes, I don’t believe there’s a single student in Slytherin who will doubt that you saw Draco sneaking into Professor Slughorn’s cabinet.”

“I see. When?”

“You’ll know when.” Tom pockets their bottle of interest and lifts the last, letting it hover above his palm. “And you will be grateful to have taken part, for when the day comes when all of this is behind us, you will be rewarded.” The glass falls into his hand. He squeezes it and smirks. “And all those who scorn me now will regret ever having crossed Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

 

*               *               *

 

The setting sun bathes the Great Lake in faint orange hue. Sitting on the dock’s edge, Harry sways his dangling feet, spreading ripples across the dark surface. Clenched in his fist is a bit of parchment. He has kept it in his clasp since its arrival.

The dock creaks behind him. He tilts back his head and finds Tom staring down at him. Harry raises his right foot and breaks it hard against the water, splashing his rolled-up trouser legs. “Not guilty.” He grins and laughs, not even caring about how stupid he may look. “Not guilty! Can you believe it?”

Tom summons Lupin’s letter. He is hard-faced reading it. “Not much detail here.”

“Well, he was probably in a hurry,” Harry says dismissively as he hops to his feet. “I reckon he Apparated to Hogsmeade to send it here.” His warm fingers take Tom’s elbows. “Lighten up, Tom. Dad’s not going to Azkaban. The whole of Britain thinks we’re a couple of dolts. Don’t you get it? It's like Hermione said. He must want us to fall beneath the radar. We’re going to be safe. At least for now.”

“Right,” Tom says derisively while narrowing his eyes. “The world believes we’re demented would-be radicals and you think you’re safe? A professor casted an Unforgivable on you today and you think you’re  _safe_?!”

“What…” The hate in Tom’s leer makes him flinch. “Tom, come on. I know not everything is perfect, but we’ve got to keep on the bright side. Can’t you at least be a  _little_  bit happy for me? For my family?”

Harry gasps; quicker than he can process, Tom has ripped out of his grip and taken control, strong hands squeezing tight around his wrists. He yanks at them feebly. “Let me go, Tom.”

“Aren’t you a cute little optimist?” There is an eerie ring in his mocking tone. “How easy would it be for him to kill you, Harry? How easy would it be for the public to dismiss the death of a poor, addled teen, and to suspect it was his dangerous _friend_ who’s responsible? There’s a million ways this can play out against us, love. Your friends and family may care about you, but only I can protect you. Only I will do whatever it takes.”

As Harry continues to shake his arms, he glances around. Students who’d been sitting in the distance, minding their own, are now watching them. “Tom, quit it. People are starting to notice.”

His hold doesn’t slack. “Pack your necessities in your rucksack. Leave whatever else you want with Weasley. I don’t know what the Minister has planned but I can guarantee you this: He has us where he wants us.”

The conviction in Tom’s gaze softens Harry’s resistance. He is serious, isn’t he?

“How can you be sure?”

“Think about it, Harry Your father is a pure-blood. A respected Auror. Condemn him and all you’ve got is a traitor and an Auror’s office filled with Ministry defectors… Of what use would that have been to Grindelwald, really? No, he was meant to be an example—proof that anyone can be tried, but not that everyone will be convicted. It’s proof that he’s not a tyrant.”

Shame manifests in Harry’s chest. How could he be so stupid, thinking there was something to be happy about? He considers the hands around him: the hands that wrote him into being.

“I have a plan.” Tom clenches him harder. Hard enough to bruise. “We can’t hope to tie up all the loose ends here at Hogwarts. We can’t hope to save everyone. But we can do one thing that he really, really won’t like.”

“And what’s that?”

For the first time today, Tom truly smiles.

“We can dispel the misconception that Harry Potter is a guileless pawn.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe probably lots of typos but i'm not editing until tomorrow because i just really want it posted. next chapter will be...! 
> 
> <3


End file.
